#like maybe crowley wanted to dance together over the centuries but he knew the whole angels-don't-dance thing and didn't even dare to dream

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

brb adjusting to the new reality where crowley says "you don't dance" to aziraphale and not "we don't dance"

[bluewhispersandabsinth]

still not a multi-fandom blog but I finished watching Good Omens 2 and I have thoughts and I want to ramble about them.

But since it's not the main theme of this blog, I don't plan to write GO fanfic again any time soon, and it's rambling about the ending, thus, spoilers, I put it under the cut.

I like that the ending of season 2 was in many ways an enhanced interaction of what happened in episode 3, season 1, including the "Come with me!" and "I forgive you." In a way, it was almost more dramatic given that Crowley didn't just want to go to one of their headquarters and stay involved with Earth and the humans together with his partner, but to elope to a different galaxy.

The speech wasn't that much different, just a bit more self-aware (important, sweet, but they still had similar conversations about "let's be on our side!" before many times, even in the BC times, and if compared, while a similar gist, it has slowly become more and more self-aware over time already, but never was full there before), it really just lacked the kiss and many of us suspected if it weren't for keeping the material a bit more mainstream appropriate when it was written, there would have been a kiss. I wonder actually if that's the reason why the scenes are so similar. To finally do what should have been done a long time before.

Anway, what I'm getting at -

"Let's do [radical thing] together!" - "No!" - "But...!" - "I forgive you." - One storms off (statistically, mostly Crowley) - one gets in trouble (statistically, mostly Aziraphale but then it's not gets but "gets") - dramatic reunion

seems to be a pattern throughout their friendship, including the emotional bond growing and escalating a bit further every time (yeah, it feels dramatic now, that we see it, but it's all happening and building up over 6000 years, sometimes with decades or centuries between "breakup" and reunion.)

I wonder if we'll get the full story of the 1793 prison scene. So far we've learned: Aziraphale knows that Crowely loves saving him and doesn't mind acting a little helpless/putting himself in danger and he did the "You're right, I am wrong dance" the same year. Combined with the smugness and "Oh, you!" from both sides, and Aziraphale's rather lame reasons why he ended up there and why he unfortunately, unfortunately can neither miracle nor charm himself out of jail? Yeah, that's a story that smells of a dramatic previous setup. Like a "breakup" over sides, for example.

I bet one wild fan theory that what looks extremely dramatic to us is the same song and dance they've been through countless times in 6k years and, if anyone remembers the manga and how it ended, we're steering toward a Ranma 1/2-esque resolution, maybe with more open and blunt handholding but all in all, nothing really changed aside from Crowley finally saying what Aziraphale already knew or at least expected (our angel guy doesn't seem very surprised by the confession and more pained by the timing and context than anything else).

All in all, ep6s2 feels more like the midpoint or late third of a whole season, especially if compared to the pacing and beats of the first season. And now, the second coming?

Sounds like the hint at a future conflict based on the same premise as the main arc of season 1, just from the other perspective (wouldn't be surprised if it included the concept of "The Rapture" in one form or the other, would be funny if Crowley turned out to be behind the belief in The Rapture but not to please Hell but to annoy Aziraphale with paperwork).

Anyway, it's good that things are how they're now. Aziraphale gets to step out of their routine and to experience one of his big "What ifs..." that he'd have wondered about until eternity if he hadn't been given the chance to be a proper angel in Heaven again.

And now, Crowley has to share Earth with Gabriel, Beelzebub, and Muriel, three immortal beings like him, with very different personalities from him and Aziraphale.

Choosing someone as your forever-person over others and lifechoices is only a true choice when you experience options.

If they end up together after another season and choose to stay together on Earth, independent from their backgrounds, it'll be because they truly choose to, and not brought together by proximity loneliness for being two of a kind.

I really hope that's an angle they'll go with in the future.

[roseskiesandbutterflies]

My Melancholy Blues (Good Omens One-Shot)

Summary: 1923. When Aziraphale bumps into a rather drunk Crowley for the first time after their fight at St James's Park, he's hellbent on helping the poor dear. Pun not intended. But maybe it isn't just Crowley who needs help. After all, what is it we say about coincidences?

Warning(s): alcohol, swearing, cigarettes, angst

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: I’m back! I’ll be quick because this is for the DTIYS from @whiteleyfoster and it needs to be up by the end of September to be considered and September in the UK ends in 2.5 hours. Classic me leaving this until the last minute. Anyway I hope you enjoy, sorry about the angst but it just kind of happened. Whoops. Also the title comes from My Melancholy Blues by Queen! The song isn't a perfect match to this fic but the vibe is similar enough for me to like it.

"Hey, 'ziraphale," Crowley slurred from the rooftop he was perched precariously on, waving like a lunatic, "Cooee!"

He watched as the small white blob that was hopefully the angel in question stopped dead in his tracks. Something not all that dissimilar to astonishment washed over his face, before looking up warily, almost scared of what he would find. Shock soon turned to concern when he saw that Crowley was, in fact, sitting on the roof of the Ritz with a ridiculously lopsided grin on his face. Honestly, he thought to himself, a little over sixty years and not a single word, and then I find him drunk in the middle of London. Typical. He shook off the thought with a hardly noticeable eye-roll before calling back, "Crowley? What on Earth are you doing up there?"

Crowley made a face at him, "What does it look like I'm doing?" He waved the bottle of wine he was holding in Aziraphale's vague direction before taking a swig of it.

"I can see that," he said, speaking a little more slowly when he started to realise just how drunk Crowley was, "What I meant was why are you drinking on the roof of the Ritz?"

"The view up here's great! You can see Buckingham Palace from up here!" he said, quite keen at defending his choice of location.

"Surely there's a nicer place to drink in, though? Perhaps somewhere warmer?" he suggested, really quite worried now that he could see how little Crowley was wearing.

"Nah, I was in this club in the East End but the music was a bit shit so I left," he shrugged.

"Right," he nodded unsurely, "And it never occurred to you to go to another bar?"

Crowley suddenly looked very offended, pouting like an extraordinarily petulant child, "Why are you so worried about where I drink? I thought you didn't care about me or something. 'S a bit suspicious if you ask me."

"No, no. Curious is all," Aziraphale said, blatantly avoiding the issue they hadn't got round to resolving yet. No matter how annoyed he was at Crowley, and how the latter must feel towards him, he didn't think he could bear to fight with him again. He'd much rather dance around the truth for a little while longer.

Crowley, even in his not quite sober state of mind, seemed to understand, though the tension was so thick it wasn't exactly difficult. He quickly changed the subject, "You should come up here, angel, you'd like it. Promise."

He looked so hopeful and even vulnerable, as if his whole world was about to come crashing down and Aziraphale sitting with him was the only thing that could stop it. If he'd refused then that would have made him very heartless indeed, and that simply wouldn't do. Though luckily for him, he didn't have the time to even briefly consider the proposal before he found himself sitting by Crowley's side, staring down at where he'd just been standing. He shifted himself so he opposite him, with his back leaning against the chimney post, feeling considerably steadier than he was before.

"Well," Crowley looked at him expectantly, "What do you think?"

Aziraphale blinked before murmuring, "I think you look lovely, my dear. The blue of your dress really compliments the colour of your hair-"

He was cut off by Crowley's undignified snort, "Well, thanks, angel, but I meant the view. Not my dress. Though I'm glad you like it," he reassured him quickly when he noticed his mortified expression.

Aziraphale's tense expression softened like melted butter when he finally looked at the breath-taking landscape surrounding the two of them, encompassing them in the odd security that comes with strangely empty cities. Crowley was right, you could see Buckingham Palace from the rooftop, as well as St James's Park and Berkeley Square and the rest of Piccadilly. Incandescent lights shone from the streets below, but they were nothing compared to the forget-me-not blue of midnight skies above them, dusted with millions of stars like icing sugar on a cake. "Oh," he sighed softly, wholly content and at peace with the world, "Oh, Crowley, it's beautiful. It's, well, I never realised London could be so..." he trailed off, left speechless from awe.

Crowley grinned up at him, "Just wait until the sun comes up. Won't be long now."

Aziraphale's smile faded ever so slightly, "You say that like you've been up here before," he said gently, trying hard not to come off as accusatory.

Crowley's face morphed into one a child might wear when caught with their hand in the cookie jar, but he quickly shrugged it off, leaving it for Aziraphale to mull over by himself. "Drink?" he offered, holding out the bottle of wine.

"Oh, a drink would be lovely, thank you," he smiled, taking it cautiously and sipping at it, letting the alcohol seep in and ease his aching mind.

"What are you doing out this time of night, anyway?" Crowley asked innocently as he took the bottle back from him.

"I-I fancied a walk. Been spending far too much time indoors recently. Needed some fresh air," Aziraphale stammered out, passing the bottle back even though he could have easily finished it off right there and then.

Crowley hummed in response, deciding not to question it even though his gut was screaming at him, screaming that he was lying, he needs help, he needs someone, anyone.

He needs you. Just as much as you need him.

He decided to ignore his intuition because ignorance was far easier than the truth. It slid down like honey and soothed your soul, however temporarily.

"So, the nineteen-twenties," Crowley mused, letting his eyes dance over his surroundings, "'S been an interesting decade so far, hasn't it? Great nightlife. And the fashion, ooh. I've really been enjoying this whole flapper thing. What d'you make of it all, angel?"

It took Aziraphale a moment to respond, "I-I can't say I'd noticed much," he murmured, eyes hellbent on avoiding Crowley's.

Don't look into my eyes. Don't look into them, my love, because if you do, you'll know everything. I'll have no more secrets left, none at all. And I don’t think I can handle that.

The alarm bells in Crowley's head were deafening by that point, even he couldn't ignore them any longer. "Noticed what?" he asked, cautiously placing the wine bottle behind him, deathly terrified of the answer.

"Any of it," he said, voice no louder than a whisper, "I haven't noticed any of it."

Crowley's eyes widened as he tried his best to push down this rising tide of dread inside of him, "Angel-"

"Don't, Crowley," he pleaded, voice breaking but desperately trying to hide it. It was when he finally dared to glance at him that Crowley could finally see the vulnerability and the fear and the anxiety and just about every other emotion that humans had a name for. "Please, don't make me explain, I can't-" he stopped midsentence, inhaling deeply, desperately attempting to pull himself together, "I don't want to talk about it."

Crowley momentarily looked like he was about to object, and Aziraphale’s heart would have skipped a beat if he had one, but he didn’t, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He let himself wonder, for a fleeting second, if perhaps he hadn’t been alone in his weird and confusing feelings. For he had felt this strange sense of loneliness for decades after their fight back in 1867. He’d spent much longer than a few decades without his angel before, but that time had been different, had stung in a way that struck him to his very core. Maybe there was a chance that Aziraphale had felt much the same way. Maybe they were more alike than he thought. He brushed off these thoughts as quickly as they’d arrived; it was unwise to ponder these things while in the presence of others. Instead of making a comment that wasn’t likely to be welcomed with open arms per se, he nodded deeply, oozing with understanding.

Crowley would be a hypocrite if he said that he wouldn’t mind being interrogated like that if he was in Aziraphale’s position, and he was sure he’d already worked most of it out.

Aziraphale softened in relief, the unshed tears in his eyes glistening like gemstones in the glow of the sun that was just starting to rise, creeping slowly up his face as it peered over the London skyline. Crowley couldn’t help it if his eyes lingered on the angel’s face. The logical side of him knew that angels were ethereal by nature, but only now was he starting to understand why. He seemed to literally glow gold with the dawn, outshining the sun and putting it to shame. His ivory suit had been dyed champagne by the sun’s rays, champagne, the colour of the drinks people downed with ease, the colour of the streetlights below them. His eyes were sapphires buried behind a veil of melancholy, framed with the wrinkles that came with centuries upon centuries of things to find joy in.

Oh, the irony, Crowley thought sadly to himself. He forced himself to cast his eyes away, feeling Aziraphale starting to squirm under his stare, instead looking at the Marlboro Red which had materialised in his hand miraculously, or not, depending on how you looked at it. He lit it with a click of his fingers, taking a drag and offering it to Aziraphale. No words had to be said; they’d known each other for long enough, they could say anything with no more than a look.

He eyed it nervously but only for a second, vulnerability taking over and impulses kicking in, and it was in his hand and he was breathing it in before he could even register what he was doing. The smoke waltzed circles around them before leaping away in the early morning breeze. Sparks flew off the cigarette as Aziraphale passed it back, glowing crimson in the sunrise, dying embers of a phoenix blowing away in the lapis blue of the sky.

They sat in the strangely comforting silence for a few moments, the dawn bringing with it its own eery peace. It wasn’t until the cigarette had nearly burnt away completely did Aziraphale finally murmured something, “Will we be okay, Crowley? You and me? Will we be alright?”

Crowley blinked back at him in surprise for a second before mumbling, “I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you do,” he said, voice filled with the spirit of the clouds above them, sweet and gentle and oh-so-soft, “Will we be alright?”

Crowley took advantage of the now burnt out cigarette to think of a response, leaving it to fall out of his hand and onto the pavement below, watching the ashes scatter over the London streets as if he was mourning them, “Yeah. I think we’ll be okay. Do you?”

“I hope so,” he said, voice no louder than a whisper but speaking volumes all the same. A single tear escaped, a drip of molten gold running down his face.

There was a lump in Crowley’s own throat just at the sight of his angel, and at the overwhelming meaning of those three simple words. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and brushing the tear away and my, hadn’t they gotten rather close. Aziraphale melted like butter under his touch and Crowley’s heart could burst just looking at him. Suddenly he was pressed up to the demon’s chest, arms hesitantly snaking around him, leaving Crowley speechless in shock for no more than a second. He quickly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, resting his chin on the top of his head as the angel buried his face in his chest. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle that had remained unsolved for far too long, both of them internally sighing in relief and shouting for joy because they knew that this was where they needed to be. Neither let go, for neither wanted to, and they held each other as the dawn sun watched over them, casting its protective glow over a moment that deserved to be shielded from prying eyes.

And in the years to come, they would both act like that fateful night in nineteen twenty three had never happened, tucking the memory away in a far-flung corner of their minds and putting the whole thing down to alcohol’s wicked influence. But, no matter how much denial they would put themselves through in the next century or so, they both remembered in the depths of their hearts the words that had been said and the words that had been buried deep between the lines.

[wanderingalicewrites]

Come Together

(Also on AO3)

This is the second fic I promised for Wolfjackle, who is amazing. It’s also probably the closest I’ve ever come to NSFW (even though it never actually reaches that territory). Thanks for giving me this prompt. It was exactly what I needed to write in order to get myself back on track with my ongoing fic. <3

---

It is the night After. After the apocalypse. After escaping both Heaven and Hell. After eleven years of fear. After six millenia of Waiting for the End. After. And yet, also Before. Before every last moment of the rest of their lives.

Crowley sprawls on Aziraphale’s couch, drunk on nothing so much as freedom. Aziraphale watches him from the chair by his desk, reveling in light in those uncovered eyes. He’s always loved the yellow of them. It’s so bright. Like dandelions. Like the sun.

“Ah, Crowley,” he says, hesitating even now. Because it is After, but it is also Before. That moment of uncertainty at the top of a cliff. Do you jump? If you do, will you fall? Or will you fly?

“Angel?” Crowley watches him, sun-bright eyes on his face and not the way his fingers turn the ring over and over on his finger - the telltale sign of his nerves.

“I- that is- ah,” it is hard to begin, when he has spent so long waiting. When so much of his life has been of fear. Crowley waits, as he ever has, the very soul of patience.

“There’s something-” Aziraphale starts, then stops again, looking down. He does not know how to break six thousand years of silence. He stands, needing to move, hoping the motion will knock the words loose inside of him. “I-”

“It’s alright,” Crowley tells him, smiling gently. “I can wait. Go as slow as you like.”

“No.” His vehemence surprises them both. “No, I’m done with waiting. With going slow. Hiding what I- what I feel. What I want. I don’t want to wait one second more.”

“Then what do you want, Angel?” Crowley asks, a careful hope in his words.

Aziraphale goes to him and takes him by the hand, pulling him up until he’s standing bare inches away. Crowley freezes there, eyes wide, not daring to move. Afraid of spooking him should he come too close or move too fast. It breaks his heart to see it. He never wants to be the cause of Crowley’s fear. Never again.

He takes a deep breath, there on the edge of the cliff between what is After and what is Before. And then, he makes the jump.

“I want you.”  

He pauses, and the world does not shatter. No clash of thunder or flash of lightning. No horns of war battle drums sound in the distance. No searing pain as his wings burn to black. The retribution he spent so long fearing does not come.

“I want you,” he says again, and the only other sound is Crowley’s harsh breathing. Emboldened by the silence, he continues, the words starting out as a trickle but coming easier and easier until they are a flood. “I want you in any way and every way you care to give me. Whether it’s just as we’ve been, or something more. I want you here, safe, where neither Heaven nor Hell can take you from me. I want walks in the park. I want dinner at the Ritz. I want to ride with you in that infernal car of yours, and to watch you yell at your plants. I want you to make fun of my magic tricks and roll your eyes at me when you think I’m being ridiculous. I want to not need to find excuses for us to see each other. I want- I want our side. Not just not-Heaven and not-Hell, but you and I. Together. I-” He stops, and still the world does not erupt into flames.

“I want,” he adds softly, taking Crowley’s hands in his as the demon stands there, stunned to silence. “To stop this dance we’ve done around each other for the past six thousand years. I want to stop waiting, and tell you exactly what you are to me.”

Crowley closes his eyes, shoulders shaking from the monumental effort of holding back six thousand years of longing.

“Is that…” Aziraphale stops, hesitant, suddenly afraid he’d assumed too much. Had read too far into this dance they’ve always done, orbiting around each other like binary stars. “Is that something you might want, too?”

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, the word itself a prayer. “Go- Sata- yes.”  He opens those sun-bright eyes and meets Aziraphale’s own sea-blue gaze. They are standing so close now. Just a hairs breadth  away. Crowley’s breath brushes his cheeks every time he exhales. One step closer is all it would take. All he has to do is reach out, and Crowley would be in his arms. He has never wanted anything so badly. Nor been so completely incapable of movement.

“I would like- that is to say, um,” his eyes flick down to Crowley’s lips and then away. “I, only if you want to, of course, but, well. I’ve wanted to for so long. And now, well, now I can, um. If you’ll let me, that is. I-”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts. “If you don’t kiss me, right now, I think I’m going to explode.”

“Well now,” Aziraphale grins. “We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” He takes a step forward, and takes Crowley’s face in his hands, burying his fingers in soft scarlet hair.

“You’re shaking,” he observes. This close, he can feel it with his whole body.

“Just-”  Crowley swallows. “Just nerves. Angel, you don’t know how long I-”

“I think I do.” He runs his thumbs over Crowley’s cheekbones, reveling in the feel of him, the reality of him, there and solid and real under his hands. His Crowley. His. “I’ve wanted this since… oh, Rome, maybe. Or even before.”

“I’ve wanted you since Eden,” the demon murmurs, hands coming to rest on Aziraphale’s arms. “When I saw you’d given up your sword for the humans. That’s when I knew you were special.”

Aziraphale blinks, astonished. “That long?”

“Mm.” Crowley’s staring at his lips now. “That long.”

There’s a breath. A pause. A moment to capture and hold in his mind for eternity. Then he leans in, ever so slightly, and presses their lips together.

It is… there aren’t words for this. Not in any book that has ever been or will ever be. It is like coming home after a long day to find your lover waiting for you with a smile. It is like sinking into a warm bath, or taking that first sip of the perfect hot cocoa. Like breathing in the fresh autumn air, or watching snow fall beyond the window next to a roaring fire. Like an oath, a promise, that here in this moment this person is yours and you are theirs. That you will never, ever let go. It is lightning racing through your veins and singing down your nerves, electric, making you feel that much more alive. It is a dance of hands and bodies and breath, two lives coming together, for just a moment so close as to be one.

Crowley’s hands are in Aziraphale’s hair, fingers tangled in white curls. He lets out a soft moan, and Aziraphale all but melts, running his hands down his back and clutching at his hips, pulling him closer, closer, until there is no room even for air between them. Crowley presses closer still, holding on as if his life depends upon it. He’s shaking still, hard enough Aziraphale fears he might fly apart.

“It’s alright, darling,” he murmurs into the kiss, not wanting to pull back for even a second. “I’ve got you.”

Crowley sighs, wrapping his arms around the angel, grabbing the fabric of his shirt in his fists. Aziraphale holds him gently, slowing the urgency of the kiss. He runs his hands up and down Crowley’s back, soothing him until his shaking stops. His fingers find the place where Crowley’s shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin. He draws small circles there, tracing around the scales that are scattered along the demon’s spine.

Crowley gasps at the sudden sensation, breaking this kiss and pulling his face away.

Aziraphale freezes, hands going still. “Too much?”

“Don’t stop,” Crowley hisses, and captures his lips again. Aziraphale hums in pleasure, resuming his exploration of Crowley’s back. Scales, freckles, and scars, his fingers find and map them all as he memorizes the shape of him, the feel of him, here in his arms.

“Never,” Aziraphale promises. He won’t. He swears it to himself, on every last shred of his faith. He will never again spend a day without moments like this. “I am never letting you go again.”

Crowley chuckles. “Good.”

“I love you.” He hadn’t meant to say it yet. Not so soon. For all his insistence that it’s  the demon that goes too fast, Aziraphale knows that in this it he who must be careful. The words had just slipped out, unbidden, centuries of holding back broken by the feel of Crowley in his arms and the taste of his laugh on his lips.

“I know,” Crowley tells him, leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I love you too, Angel.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, as always entranced by those sun-bright eyes. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m afraid, my dear, that you’re rather stuck with me now.”

A surprised grin slides across the demon’s face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then he leans in, and kisses him again.

[trashboatprince]

I miss writing stuff with Nanny and Francis, been in a bit of a dry spell with writing cause of all... yeah.

But anyway, here’s a little something with these two.

Summery: It’s a date, that’s what Francis called it, and how could Ashtoreth refuse? Sure, they’ve shared meals together a millions times as Aziraphale and Crowley, but never in these personas.

Could be fun.

On with the fic!

--

“Sunday is your day off, yes?”

Crowley looked up from his bathroom sink, seeing Aziraphale standing in the doorway in the reflection of the mirror. No longer was he in that ridiculous getup of his as the gardener of the Dowling estate, instead he was in his typical clothing, sans overcoat.

It was late at night, Warlock was sleeping soundly, and the door was locked to Nanny Ashtoreth’s private room so no nosy humans could see them out of their disguises. “Yeah, usually every other Sunday is off, why do you ask?” Crowley raised an eyebrow before going back to removing his makeup.

Sure, he could miracle it away, but he liked the ritual of putting it on and taking it off. He watched in the reflection as Aziraphale toyed with his vest, looking a bit embarrassed. “Well, if you’re not... busy, performing acts of evil and annoyance on the general public of London...”

“So, my usual Sunday nonsense, you mean?”

“Of course, but anyway, I was wondering if you were able to find time in your busy schedule to... have lunch with me, maybe even spend a few hours together. Like... on a date.”

Crowley paused, blinking, it had to be extremely surprising of a situation to make a snake demon blink.

“A date?” The redhead said carefully, as if tasting the word for any sort of sour or poisonous taste.

“Yes, a-a date, together.” Aziraphale was even more red in the face that his Francis look, and Crowley turned to face him completely, feeling heat on his own cheeks. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is.���

“No, it’s... not,” Crowley spoke, stepping towards him, “in fact, I’m all for it.”

This seemed to perk the angel up and he smiled a bit more. “Oh lovely! I was thinking we could try this new place I had heard Mrs. Dowling speaking to with a friend during her tea time in the garden today! Something about authentic southern Spanish dishes, we haven’t had those in quite some time! And I do remember there is a lovely Turkish coffee shop I’ve been meaning to take you to, I know you love a strong coffee and they are the best at it!”

A finger was placed to Aziraphale’s lips, stopping him before he could continue. Crowley smiled just a little before dropping it. “No need to spoil your plans for us, angel.”

“R-right, of course.” The smaller man cleared his throat, before looking embarrassed once more. “Though, there is one thing I would like to ask.”

“And what is that?”

“Would you be alright with us going out together... as Ashtoreth and Francis?”

For the second time that night, Crowley blinked. “As our personas?” 

“Yes, I think it would be a bit fun, you know? To go out for a nice afternoon, not as an angel or a demon, but as a nanny and a gardener, two perfectly normal humans who enjoy each other’s company!”

They looked at one another as Crowley thought this over, before giving a nod. “I’d love to, Francis.” Came the reply with a Scottish tint to it.

--

‘It’s a date.’ Ashtoreth thought to herself as she applied her favorite shade of purple lipstick on her lips.

‘You’ve been on countless dates over the years with him.’ Setting the tube of lipstick down, she grabbed her eyeliner, moving to apply just the right amount of that on. ‘Well, they aren’t really called dates, but that’s pretty much what they are.’

Now, she put on a shawl she had gotten a few years back when she had been so bored out of her skull that she went on a shopping spree. Sometimes you just don’t feel like miracles need to be used to give yourself an outfit, sometimes you want to fill up that empty closet in your room.

Ashtoreth adjusted it around her shoulders as she looked herself over in the mirror. Black shawl, tight purple shirt that showed off what needed to be shown, and a lovely pencil skirt and tights combo to go with her snakeskin boots.

‘He’ll like this, Azir- Francis will like it, he always has something nice to say.’ She thought as she put on a hat with a fishnet veil.

There was a pause and Ashtoreth hissed through her teeth, feeling anxious. “Ngk.”

They’ve never been on a date before, not like this, not as these two. Never had the time! Warlock was a handful, and Hell was always looking for a chance to pile on the work! Same with Heaven!

But today was a free day, they both made sure of it!

“You can do this, Ashtoreth, stop bein’ a wimp.” She mumbled as she snatched up her pocketbook and slipped on her shades, leaving her room. She strode past house staff who knew to not bother her when she was up to something. Ashtoreth ignored the stares as she made her way down the stairs to the front door, only stopping when Warlock ran past.

He was spending the day with his mother, as was the usual routine for Nanny’s days off, but that wasn’t stopping the demon from giving her favorite Antichrist a peck on the cheek before telling him to give his mother trouble.

With that, Ashtoreth was out the door and down the stairs, where she found the Bentley waiting for her and her date as well. She came to a stop, lowering her shades to look the man up and down, rather shocked to see the clothes he chose.

Gone was the Victorian style look of the part-time bookseller, gone was the Edwardian-inspired nonsense of the gardener, instead Francis wore a casual outfitting of both personas.

Tan dress pants, penny loafers that were out of style yet so fitting of the man, and a pure-white dress shirt with a dark blue sweater vest over it, complete with a tartan bowtie because of course.

Francis smiled, moving to the driver’s side of the car to open it for her. “Ye’re lookin’ rather radiant today, Ms. Ashtoreth.” Came to voice of the gardener as he smiled at her, all buckteeth and muttonchops.

She gave him a nod, smiling as she took the hand that offered to help her into her Bentley, all the while the staff were staring out the windows at the two. Francis closed the door and ran over to his side, getting in and readying himself for her driving.

“So,” she smirked, turning on the Bentley, “shall we go enjoy our date, Francis Fell.”

“I do believe we shall, Coraline Ashtoreth.”

With that, they drove off the grounds at a speed that was greatly above the unofficial speed limit of the estate’s grounds.

--

The restaurant that Aziraphale had learned about was a small place, new and family-owned. The waitress gave them their menus, though Ashtoreth did catch the confused look that crossed her face when the demon spoke to her in Spanish when she ordered their drinks without even bothering to glance at the menu.

When the waitress stepped away to get them, Francis looked at the redhead across the table. “Didn’t know ya spoke Spanish, Ms. Ashtoreth. You’re rather talented.”

They were playing a game, that’s what they decided. A real date, but they were playing not as Crowley and Aziraphale, but as the nanny and the gardener, and that meant pretending to not know things about each other.

It was... rather fun, like learning things anew again.

“Oh yes,” She replied, “I’m well versed in several tongues.” She winked at him at the double meaning. She greatly enjoyed the darkening of his already ruddy cheeks.

“Goodness, might have to learn a thing or two from ya then.”

Alright, that caught her off-guard, she would have spat out her drink if she had one at the moment.

“W-what about you, Brother Francis? How educated at you in... things?”

The drinks were placed on the table and Francis placed their orders, even though neither decided on anything. Something small and simple for her, something complex and flavorful for himself. A break in the game, but neither would acknowledge it.

When they were alone again, Francis turned to face her, setting his chin on his folded hands, elbows on the table as he smiled at her. “You might say I’m well read, know lots o’ things, my dear, read up on all sorts of things that’ll make you amazed.”

He took a sip of his drink. “An’ I know mah way around a dance or two.” He winked and she choked on her own sip of her drink.

“Naughty boy you are, Brother Francis.” She grinned. “Might have to show a lady like me a ‘dance’ tonight.”

Francis smiled around the rim of his glass and the two started to laugh.

They enjoyed their lunch together, talking about where they first had these dishes, but still playing it as Ashtoreth and Francis having experiencing them rather than their celestial and occult selves.

The meal was paid for by Francis, (’A gentleman pays for the first date!’ he had insisted, though it was meant more as an inside joke about how he paid for their first ‘date’ centuries ago and after that Crowley usually picked up the tab), and they left, holding hands. A stroll wasn’t planned, but the nanny wasn’t complaining as they walked down the street together.

They chatted about whatever, about Warlock and the garden, about what they could see on display in the windows. It was... nice, lovely really, to just do this where Heaven and Hell weren’t involved and neither was the whole face that the world was going to probably end in about seven years.

Sure, they created these characters to help prevent it, but it was nice to not be the Snake of Eden or the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. No, just two people on a date together, holding hands, laughing at some strange painting on display in a shop window that reminded them of an old artist friend from days gone by.

And it was nice for Ashtoreth, to be able to be open like this with the angel holding her hand, giving it squeezes a few times. They couldn’t do this together normally, you never know who was watching, but neither of their respective offices knew what they looked like in these disguises.

Hell literally couldn’t tell who she was back in the seventies when she came down with that Tony ‘Snake Hips’ Crowley look she was sporting at the time, so she highly doubted that they’d know she was walking to a Turkish coffee shop with the enemy who was sporting muttonchops.

And she doubted Heaven gave even an eighth of a rat’s ass about what Aziraphale was actually doing, so they were safe to be open like this, even if they still had to be in disguise, just to be safe. 

Still, Ashtoreth wasn’t gonna look a gift horse in the mouth, she was gonna enjoy every blessed second of this!

--

“We need to do this again.” Ashtoreth commented, watching the ducks from their favorite spot in St. James’s Park, taking a drink from the to-go cup of coffee in her hand.

“Hm?” Francis looked over, finishing the bite of baklava in his mouth. “You-you do?”

“Of course. I’m actually having a good time, Francis, and this is nice. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we do this sort of thing a lot, but we’re so...” She waved a hand about. “Secretive, ya know? Can’t be all out and about with this sorta thing, never know who’s watchin’.” She pointed up and down a few times.

“I see yer point.” Francis replied, sighing as he glanced up. “I like this too, being able to spend time with ya, not havin’ to look every which way to make sure we don’t got someone spyin’ on us.” He popped another bit of his treat into his mouth. “We’ll have to plan fer another date, I was thinkin’ we could get outta town, spend the day together travelin’ the South Downs area.”

Ashtoreth nodded, before feeling a hand resting over her own. She glanced at the angel next to her, smiling just a bit, before enjoying the moment.

“Yeah, let’s do that, angel.”

END

--

Posting without editing, sorry for the errors you had to read. 

[creepy-crawley-crowley]

Stay - Crowley x Reader

Requested byyyyyyyYyyyYyy: @xxplantaestheticsxx

Hello me again could I request a clingy Crowley x reader and please make it really fluffy

You bet I can!

Also, I'm sure most of you have realised that I keep things gender neutral unless otherwise stated in the request, so if you want the reader to be Female or Male or so on, you might wanna mention it. I'm just trying to be all inclusive, because as a smol trans bean, I understand the struggles :)

Fluffy Crowley is like...b e s t

If someone ever called Crowley soft, he would probably miracle them back into the 15th century. After all, soft was a four letter word, and he hated that. The fact that someone had the nerve to describe him with a four letter word was horrendous to him. The nerve of it!

Although, even if it hadn't been a four letter word, he would've gotten annoyed. He was not soft, not at all. No way was he ever soft, and he never would be. Even if he hung out with an angel and a human almost every day, he would not ever be soft. Or so he told himself, but it was a lie.

Y/N knew that Crowley was lying when he said he wasn't soft. It was such a obvious lie to anyone who really knew him, but every time Y/N brought it up, Crowley would hiss, and dismiss the accusation, with an annoyed "I'm not soft!". Aziraphale and Y/N both found it highly amusing.

He was, very clearly, a lot nicer that he made out he was, actually, after all, he once ended up taking a baby bird that had fallen from it's nest home to raise it. He was convinced that Aziraphale and Y/N didn't know, actually, but they did. They weren't going to tell him though.

And then Y/N and Crowley started dating, and Y/N got to see a whole different side of Crowley. He was a Demon, so sensing negativity was second nature to him, and once he even got the slightest hint of negativeness from Y/N, he would be at their side, concerned, and ready to hug.

Or maybe he'd be ready to deal some damage to whoever caused Y/N to feel like that. He would, and he wouldn't hesitate. Both Y/N and Aziraphale knew that, so they usually refrained from telling Crowley whenever someone did something that wasn't exactly...good to them.

Anyway, Y/N and Crowley ended up keeping the bird. It was, quite ironically, a Crow, and Y/N made sure that Crowley knew, mentioning it whenever they had a chance. It was rather amusing, actually. They both agreed to name it Jason, as a nod to the mythology that Y/N was fond of.

There had actually been times where Y/N had found Crowley, sat in his throne, with Jason perched on his shoulder. Crowley would be feeding the Crow, and gently petting him, and Y/N would fall just that little bit more in love.

That's all it took, really. Y/N had been close with Crowley for hundreds of years, Y/N was a Demon, not that it mattered because hell just didn't bother. Y/N was too wild, too fast, and too smart for them to keep up.

But seeing Crowley being...soft to an animal (it had been a snake the first time, unsurprisingly) was all it really took for Y/N to completely fall, in all sense of the word. Y/N had once been an angel, and Y/N had once fell. Crowley would say that Y/N had danced while falling, because Y/N was graceful. Sometimes.

All it took for Crowley to fall was seeing Y/N tending to his plants one day. He had recently got a Dendrobium, also known as a Spring Dream, and it wasn't growing too well. Y/N had decided that it needed a little more affection, and had actually sat down, with the plant, and talked to it soothingly, with soft words of encouragement. "You can do it, come on little guy, you gotta grow big and strong and he won't do a thing, I promise. Can you do that?" They had cooed, in a voice so melodic that it belonged in heaven.

Well, it had, but those times were long past.

Sometimes Crowley got a little...lonely.

He wouldn't admit it, but sometimes he just wanted affection, love, even. Being a Demon wasn't easy, especially if you were...somewhat cling once knowing someone properly. Crowley had to deal with that though. He would have to deal with fleeting glances, small touches, and one night bouts of passion.

After all, he was a Demon. He didn't need anyone.

But then he did. He didn't want meaningless touches, he just wanted to be loved, to be wanted, to be needed. So when Y/N and him finally got together, he was secretly partying.

They would sit together on a couch, one Crowley had miracled into his flat, and they would be impossibly close, heads resting on each other, hands intertwined, bodies tangled, because they both wanted to be loved.

Sometimes he got a little bit needy,or clingy. Y/N had told Crowley over and over that if he ever needed something, just go get 'em, even if they were sleeping. It's not like Y/N really needed the sleep, it was just nice.

So when Crowley got clingy, he'd clamber into bed with Y/N, and Y/N would wrap him up in long arms, and silky wings, and if they weren't sleeping, they'd both just lie on the couch, listening to the sound of the other's breathing, and if they were outside they'd listen to the soothing chirping of the birds.

Crowley wouldn't admit that he was soft, but he was.

Tags:

@dekahg , @steampowerednightvaler , @meganlpie , @alexa-lightwood-blog

[ourownsideimagines]

They Say You Can’t Go Home Again, but I Found Home in You (Crowley x Fem!Angel-ish!Reader)

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Fem!Angel-ishReader, Madam Tracy, Shadwell, Gate Soldier

Requested: Yes 

Requested by: @adela-topaz-caelon

Point of View: Third Person Reader

Summary: (Name) is an Angel who, while not fallen, was booted from Heaven. She and Crowley have been dancing around their feelings for each other, and Aziraphale decided that the start of the apocalypse is a good time to finally point it out.

Warnings: I may have cursed? Otherwise, just the usual minimal editing.

Words: 1669

A/N: This is done in one large part, then a small little drabble kind of thing. 

—-

By standard terms, (name) was not an Angel. Not anymore, at least. She had not fallen after the “Great War”, but quickly found that she did not belong - if threats from Michael and Gabriel weren’t enough to get the point across, being thrown out by Sandalphon and Uriel definitely was. 

(Name) had fallen, just not in the most traditional way.

A fallen angel, though, was a fallen angel in Heaven’s opinion. She would no longer be allowed into Paradise, not that she much minded. She had her Heavenly-issued body and the ability to create miracles. What more could she need?

After a few hundred or so years she came to one conclusion. Friends, she decided. She needed friends.

So she sought out the only being she thought might be even the slightest bit kind to her - the Principality and (former) Angel of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale. He’d been living on Earth for years, and sure, maybe he knew about her ‘fall’, but there was a part of her deep down that prayed to whoever might be listening that he wouldn’t care.

It was just after the flood, and Noah sailing his arc that (name) went looking for him.

And hundreds of years later, the two were closer than close could be. And, of course, being friends with Aziraphale ultimately meant becoming friends with a certain yellow-eyed demon. (Name) was surprised to say the least when she’d first learned of the friendship, though seeing as Aziraphale was affiliating with her she couldn’t for the life of her think why he wouldn’t befriend an actual demon.

At first, she and Crowley got along as well as two fallen angels could (though he sometimes refused to refer to her as such, since she was simply booted while he had to burn the whole way down). They clashed on various occasions, snarky remarks were swapped, and looks were taken in secret.

(Name) would be lying if she said she wasn’t attracted to Crowley. There was just something about his cocky personality that drew her in. And those eyes. Those eyes could kill her and she would thank them.

Of course, (name) would never admit this out loud. There was no way she’d ever admit to actually liking Crowley - at least, not yet.

As the impending end of the earth advanced, she found herself sticking around the angel and the demon more often. She’d accompanied them to care for Warlock, posing as the new house cleaner. She kept an eye on both Aziraphale and Crowley, acting as a buffer for anything too brash. She would comfort Warlock when the two became too much for him, telling him they were just ‘old, silly fools’, then offering to sneak him into the kitchen to steal some cookies. (Name) didn’t have a side, as far as she was concerned (unless, of course, she was counting the side she, Crowley, and Aziraphale had unofficially made). She saw no wrong in contradicting either of their doings.

Crowley, or Astaroth, as she’d been going by had been rather upset about this. She didn’t want the plan to be messed up, but after that time she’d caught (name) reading to Warlock in the middle of the afternoon until he began to nap she said nothing more on the situation.

(Name) had liked Crowley’s longer hair. She was disappointed when he decided that, when he was no longer Nanny Astaroth, that he would cut it short. More masculine. Not that he looked bad - no, far from it. She just wondered, silently to herself, how nice it would have been to be able to braid it.

Perhaps, if they truly stopped armegeddon, he would grow it back out and allow her to-

No, no. She shouldn’t be thinking about that. There were much more pressing issues, such as trying to figure out her way over the hellfire that had taken over the M25. (name) had gotten a call not ten minutes ago from Crowley, telling her to get to Tadfield’s air base. 

Had (name) been told from the beginning that this is where she would end up, she would have laughed and asked ‘in how many years?’ before going off to perform another miracle (almost 6000 years, would have been the answer, not that she would have expected one).

The rain was beginning to come down hard, and in the distance she could hear police sirens. She needed to get over the fire wall, and she needed to do it now. If her watch was right, she didn’t have nearly as much time as she hoped she would.

Knowing she had only one choice, since she would not survive driving through it, (name) focused on one thing and one thing only - her wings.

It had been centuries since she’d stretched them out, and the sound of her jacket ripping made her wince. She could miracle it back together later, but the sound was unpleasant all the same. When they’d finally finished breaking free, she stretched them out. She used the smallest amount of her powers to keep them dry, and after taking in a deep breath, she launched into the air like someone who was riding a bike for the first time in years - shakily done, but done nonetheless.

The flight to Tadfield was the most liberated (name) had felt in a while. Far below here, people buzzed in panic, and she eventually caught sight of a speeding car she would have once recognized as Crowley’s vintage Bentley. She heart dropped as she watched flames lick the carriage, and melt away the tires. She was certain he would make it to Tadfield, but at such a cost it hurt even her.

On the short list of things that Crowley loved, (name) knew the first to be his car (she secretly hoped that she was second). As she approached the airbase, she began feeling winded.

She really hadn’t done this in a long time.

(Name) touched down a short five minute walk from the airbase. She didn’t want to risk the chance that someone would see her and try to shoot her down. From down the road, she saw three figures. One was an older man, a large obtuse gun strapped to his back, another a soldier holding his gun close, and the last a woman dressed in very colorful attire. Even from afar, she knew the woman - even if she didn’t recognize the face.

“Aziraphale?” She called, and all three people turned. The soldier raised his weapon, but (name) went straight to Aziraphale.

“Ah, (name),” She smiled gently. They embraced, but (name) quickly pulled away.

“Who’s this?” She asked, gently flattening Aziraphale’s sleeves.

“Oh, right. This lovely woman is Madam Tracy. Madam Tracy, this is my good friends (name).” There was no pause between Aziraphale’s words and the woman's. “Oh, a pleasure.”

“Very much so,” (name) agreed. She got the sudden feeling that the others were staring at her, but she ignored it. “What happened to your body, Aziraphale?”

“Ah, yes, about that. Got discorporated. How did you know to come here?”

“Crowley called-” (name) paused when the familiar tune of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, and the smell of burning metal and rubber breached her senses. She turned quickly, watching as the flaming Bentley swerved around the turn and came to a stop at a safe enough distance.

The door open, and Crowley slipped out, a book in one hand as he used his foot to kick the door closed.

“Wouldn’t get that kind of performance from a modern car!” He said, albeit not with much heart. He didn’t even look at the Bentley before making his way over to them. (Name) lurched forward towards him, and he stepped back in surprise. She gently grasped his arms, looking at his soot covered face.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” She said. Crowley’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he was looking behind her.

“Uh, you, um,” He was stumbling over his words.

“What?”

“Your wings,” He said, and (name) felt her blood go cold.

She had forgotten about her wings. She backed away, suddenly embarrassed, and willed them away.

“Next time you decide to drive your car through a fire, at least let me know beforehand.” She muttered. “I saw you about a mile back and got worried.”

“You were worried about me?” He smirked. She rolled her eyes. “I’m honored, really.”

“Shut up.” She said.

“Crowley, (name), I do believe the flirting can be saved for later.” Aziraphale interrupted you. “As cute as watching you two had been for the last handful of centuries, I really do think getting inside is out main objective, yes?” (Name) felt her cheeks flush red.

“We’re not- she’s not-” Crowley stopped suddenly. “You’re not… You’re not flirting are you?”

“Are you serious? At a time like this?” (Name) motioned to the armed guard.

“I was just curious.” He mumbled. (Name) sighed, but grabbed Crowley’s hand.

“We’ll talk about it later, Crowley. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

---(a little added bonus because didn’t exactly wanna write the whole airport scene)---

“Would anyone here care to explain to me what exactly is going on?” Adam Young’s father asked. Crowley turned to (name), whom had clung to him amidst the stopping of time and Satan rising. She  was winded, to say the least, and she was prepared to sleep for years, even if she didn’t truly need to.

“I should ask you the same.” Crowley mumbled. (Name)’s eyes snapped up to him. “What is going on… here… between us?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Aziraphale interrupted the two of you. “You to have been in love with each other for years, honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

“Aziraphale,” You hissed.

“I’m just so tired of seeing you two dancing around each other. It’s ridiculous.”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley’s words were cut off suddenly when (name) grasped his scarf, tugging him to her. He stared at her, eyes wide open. (Name), not exactly caring whether or not anyone was watching gave him a gentle smile.

“C’mon you old serpent. Tell me where you think we are.”

[sylwritesstuff]

034) Obsession (844)

Part of the Light to Dancing 100x100 List.

Rating: PG

—-

He wouldn't call them an obsession. Certainly not. He knew exactly what they looked like. He'd been the first to see what they looked like in the light of day. He'd been the first to see what they looked like under cloudy skies, under the shade of an outstretched wing. He knew what they looked like amused, surprised, enthralled. He knew the mischievous glint they'd get right before a temptation or some minor wickedness was performed, just as he knew the difference between the two. He also knew the sheen of displeasure, horror, shock. 

Aziraphale knew them all and he... Well, he wasn't obsessed. He just missed them. As the years had passed, the dark lenses had grown in size and so had grown in coverage. Long gone were the days where serpentine eyes and minor miracles would be looked upon as worth worship. Polytheism was out of fashion now and an ever-changing wheel of "normalcy" was expected. 

There were too many genuinely talented street musicians for minor miracles to hold any sort of reverence and, sadly, golden snake eyes hadn't been normal in centuries. Millenia, if he was being honest. They weren't even normal to Aziraphale, frankly, but that had never mattered. Not once. They were special. They were Crowley's. 

And there they were, the gold lighting up his bookshop. It was a rare light in them as he sprawled over Aziraphale's loveseat, contentment. He'd seen it quite a bit in recent months whilst their side had been taking shape, but only in the quirk of his smile and the way his brow would soften, the way he'd fallen asleep on just that loveseat no less than three times because it was safe. They were safe to exist, to be, and it was amusement now. 

Aziraphale blinked, following Crowley's gaze to the two wine glasses in his hands. Or they had been wine glasses. A faint pink dusted his cheeks as he took in the freshly miracled champagne flutes. "Oh."

"Celebrating something, angel?" 

"No. Well- well, no. It was an accident."

Lanky legs unfolded from the loveseat, Crowley crossing to him to take one of the flutes. Aziraphale stayed quite happily trapped in golden eyes. He would never, in any way, ask that Crowley sacrifice comfort and stop wearing his sunglasses, but he'd enjoy every moment wherein he could see Crowley himself and not a reflection of his own image, distorted and shadowed.

"Didn't change the whole bottle, did you?" 

"Hm? Oh!" Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, pleased to see the bottle of lovely rosé they were supposed to be enjoying was still in its place. "No. I'll repour."

"S'fine, angel. What got you happy enough to accidentally swap for champagne?" 

"Nothing." Oh, yes, amusement he knew well. It was so close to mischief, they may as well have been the same, especially when his lips curled just so. He made quite the picture, his demon. 

"Angel," he purred, and there was the glint. 

"Stop that. You won't tempt me, you wily old serpent."

"It's not a temptation if I'm goading you into something righteous. Honesty is not a sin, last I checked."

"You have that look in your eyes, so stop."

"Maybe I should put the shades back on."

"No!" he exclaimed, surprising them both. Aziraphale quickly cleared his throat. "I mean, ah... That's hardly necessary."

"That's what did it?" 

"Oh, no."

"My eyes?" 

"Please stop."

"You've seen those trillions of times!" 

Aziraphale gulped from his flute, letting the bubbles explode pleasantly over his tongue as a way to buy himself time from this embarrassment. He didn't swallow or answer until Crowley cupped his chin and tipped his head back, brows arched over his eyes. No temptation, no amusement, just patient curiosity. 

"Not recently. Not until you're already drunk. Which I certainly don't hold against you in any way. Your sunglasses are quite thoroughly your style, and I do appreciate them. And if they make you comfortable, I could hardly begrudge-" 

"I forget they're on my face," he admitted, interrupted the tidal wave of explanation. 

There was a beat. "Pardon?" 

Crowley smiled. "I forget I'm wearing the shades, angel. They only provide actual shade when they're supposed to. Inside, they know better. When I'm drunk, they just stop cooperating."

"Ah."

"Did you think I wasn't comfortable showing my eyes to you?" 

"I had thought that perhaps... Well..."

Amusement came right back, but it held a deep well of fondness. It held more, the sweet tendrils so clear when his eyes were bare and they drew Aziraphale like a moth to flame. "I just forget, angel. If you want to see my eyes, you only have to remind me to take them off. Or," he added, knowing his angel well, "I'll just make a better effort to recall. Alright?" 

"Yes. Yes, I believe that's very fair."

Aziraphale beamed as their glasses clinked together, their mutual understanding as pleasing as the look in Crowley's eyes. It, too, was a reflection of himself, though not at all distorted or shadowed. It was quite pleasing, actually. 

[kryptaria]

What Will They Reboot Next?

(Saw this on Facebook, couldn’t resist...)

One of these days, Crowley would learn to think before acting. That day, unfortunately, wasn’t yesterday, when he’d finally talked Aziraphale into getting himself a phone that wasn’t a Bakelite antique attached to a landline.

He’d just wanted a convenient way to text the angel (though he dreaded the conversation about emojis he was certain loomed in his future like the Second Apocalypse). He hadn’t expected this sort of chaos -- whatever this was.

“Explain this! Right this instant!” Aziraphale demanded, brandishing his new iPhone[1] with such vigour, not even Crowley’s demonically sharp eyes could see what was actually on the bloody screen.

It wasn’t an error message. There was an actual picture there; that much, Crowley could see. But a picture of what?

“Explain what?”

“This!” was Aziraphale’s unhelpful response, accompanied by a wave reminiscent of the angel brandishing his old flaming sword, which set off all sorts of post-apocalypse stress reactions in Crowley.

He lashed out, not to harm[2] the angel, but to catch him by one perfectly starched cuff. The wardrobe-based assault froze Aziraphale in mid-brandish, letting Crowley’s eyes[3] finally focus on the screen.

“Oh,” Crowley said, jerking his hand back, though the screen remained rock-steady and regrettably in-focus. He doubted Aziraphale had any idea who was in the photo on the left[4], but the right...

“‘Oh,’” Aziraphale quoted, the word punctuated with the faint rustle of unseen wings.

Crowley couldn’t hide his guilty flinch. “It’s not my fault!”

“Not your fault! Crowley --”

“Look, it was when you were doing inventory, all right?” Crowley protested. “Three weeks, it took you. What was I supposed to do?”

Aziraphale huffed. “You said you were going to celebrate averting the apocalypse!”

“I was!” Crowley shrugged, giving his best innocent[5] smile. “I went to Los Angeles. There’s this --”

“How does your going to Hollywood end with this?”

Crowley shrugged again, saying, “Look, you’re the one who started it all, with the whole Hamlet thing. I took a couple of acting classes[6], and next thing you know, a director got me mixed up with this ‘David Tennant’ fellow. Poor chap can’t act his way out of a paper bag, if you ask me, but he somehow made it into weekend seminars at the Royal Scottish Academy --”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and waved the mobile, making Crowley flinch again. “That’s not what I’m talking about -- although we will discuss that later,” he added ominously, bringing the whole flaming sword thing to mind again.[7]

After six thousand years of lying to Hell and, more recently, helping to avert the Apocalypse through sheer incompetence, Crowley knew when to shut up, and that moment was now. So he did.

“I’m talking about” -- Aziraphale scoffed, nose crinkling up in a positively adorable show of distaste -- “reboots.”

That nose-crinkle tore right through Crowley’s demonic defences. Despite six thousand years of vaguely-unswerving dedication to evil, he felt his mouth curl up in a sappy, slightly serpentine smile. “Reboots?”

“It says so right here.” The mobile screen flashed again, not that Crowley bothered looking. “They’re rebooting Batman.”

“Yeah?” Most of Crowley’s thoughts had melted into a puddle of goo, thanks to that nose-crinkle. The tiny corner of his infernal brain that was still working had just enough processing power to be impressed that Aziraphale hadn’t pronounced it in two words: bat man.

With a sigh of pure exasperation, Aziraphael crossed his arms, something he never did[8]. “You’re responsible for the concept of rebooting franchises every other year.”

“I wouldn’t! That’s all humans.”

Aziraphale lifted a brow sceptically. “You happen to go to Hollywood, and coincidentally there’s a Batman reboot, starring you?”

“Sure, if you put it like that, it sounds bad,” Crowley admitted, “but it’s not like they haven’t rebooted that particular franchise a hundred times already --”

“Five,” Aziraphale corrected primly.

Crowley blinked.

Aziraphale shrugged, glancing away. “I researched it.”

Crowley gave an unprecedented second blink. “You researched it?”

“I -- I have a whole back room full of comics,” Aziraphale said, still avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “Pristine first editions, all of them. I couldn’t not look into them. Have you any idea how much those things can be worth?”

“So what you’re saying is, you can afford to pay for an around-the-world cruise?” Crowley hinted, hoping to escape further discussion of reboots.

Aziraphale sniffed. “As if I’d sell any of them. I don’t even leave the door unlocked for browsing without appointment.[9] Just think of all the people getting their grubby fingerprints on the covers, dog-earing the pages...”

Crowley grinned, safely back on familiar ground. “Yes, wouldn’t want to imagine that sort of thing happening in a used bookshop.”

Refusing to be diverted, Aziraphael said, “Reboots, Crowley. Specifically Batman reboots. I sense your demonic hand at work.”

“My demonic hands were nowhere near this reboot,” Crowley said, heroically resisting the temptation to suggest anything about any of his parts, demonic or otherwise. “I was trying to tell you, I was in Los Angeles for a nightclub, that’s all.”

“A nightclub.” Aziraphale scoffed. “My dear Crowley, we’re in Soho. What could Los Angeles possibly offer that you can’t find right here?”

“Oh, angel...” Crowley smiled, plucking the mobile from Aziraphale’s fingers so he could slither up close. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

Aziraphale did that full-body wiggle he always did when Crowley got too close, as if he were making a show of being too polite to back away.[10] “Of course not. It always seemed a bit... trite. And full of Californians.”

“Well, yes. It being in California and all,” Crowley pointed out, pretending to dust some lint off Aziraphale’s lapels.

The casual touch got the angel to finally uncross his arms. His hands landed unerringly on Crowley’s hips, fitting perfectly in place like a key made for a lock. The touch was every bit as warm and inviting as the shelter of his wings had been the day of that very first storm.

And the bolt of lightning that shot through Crowley as their eyes met made that first storm seem like nothing more than a drizzle.

“What’s so special about Los Angeles?”

It took Crowley a moment to remember how to speak and even longer to remember what they’d been talking about. He definitely couldn’t remember when he’d wound his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. That sort of thing was happening more and more these days, not that they’d actually discussed it.

They probably should have done, but they were, after all, hereditary enemies. They just happened to be hereditary enemies who were on their own side now, not anybody else’s.

“This nightclub you found?” Aziraphale prompted.

“In Los Angeles. Right.”

Crowley nodded, wrenching his brain back from its dazed meandering. He was a demon, which meant he specialised in doing the wrong thing, but he’d once been an angel, and he’d recently done the right thing, with excellent results. Bracing himself, he decided to give the right thing another shot and, as humans put it, use his words.

After all, if you thought about it, they’d been on their own side for a lot longer than anyone realised. Six thousand years longer.

“Maybe... we could go together?” Crowley suggested, shifting from the casual accidental hug to deliberately running one hand up over Aziraphale’s nape.

The angel’s blue eyes went as wide as the infinite skies over the Garden of Eden.

A shiver passed through Crowley’s wings. He threaded his fingers into Aziraphale’s curls.

The sound Aziraphale made wasn’t one humans would have heard, if there had been any in the bookshop to witness this moment.[11]

A couple centuries’ of drama study had taught Crowley that this was, in fact, The Moment. He had to play it cool. Six thousand years of studying humanity meant he’d seen The Moment played out countless times. He had a whole repertoire of possible reactions and responses to choose from, even if this was the first time he himself had ever done any Seizing of The Moment.

But Aziraphale Seized first, moving his hands from Crowley’s hips to the small of his back, and suddenly there was no measurable distance between their corporeal forms at all.[12]

“Ngh,” was Crowley’s very un-cool response to his angel’s first real embrace.

Unruffled[13], Aziraphale said, “This nightclub you visited...”

What’s a nightclub? Crowley thought for a few eternal seconds before remembering. (Aziraphale’s hair was very soft. Had it always been that soft?) It took even longer for him to shuffle through his memories of every nightclub he’d ever visited[14] before he finally remembered the latest one.

It had all the usual features -- low lighting, dancing on tables, lines of humans desperate to make it past the bouncer -- but also enough alcohol to get even a couple of eternal beings plastered and a gorgeously tuned grand piano.

Besides, the only one allowed to play said grand piano could also be trusted not to snitch to either side if a certain angel and demon ended up in a dark corner booth. Together.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry,” Crowley said, tightening his arms before Aziraphale could think something had gone horribly wrong and pull away.

Smiling like an angel[15], Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s eyes and asked, “What’s this nightclub called?”

Bargaining like a demon[16], Crowley countered, “Do you believe I’m not lying about the whole reboots thing?”

“My dear Crowley...” Aziraphale tipped his head into Crowley’s palm and sighed. “Yes. I believe you.”

Warmed all the way through, Crowley said, “It’s called Lux. Want to go?”

Eyes sparkling with delight, Aziraphale said, “I’d love to. Just let me fetch a nicer tie.”

Thoughts of a wardrobe full of tartan and taupe filled Crowley’s thoughts, but he didn’t protest. It wasn’t as if the bouncers would get in their way, and once they were inside... well, he’d burn that bridge when he came to it. “You do that, angel,” he said, reluctantly stepping out of Aziraphale’s arms.

And as Aziraphale bustled off to find a new bow tie (leaving his mobile behind[17]), Crowley got out his own mobile and hastily composed an email to his agent. If all went well, he anticipated some scheduling conflicts in his future. That around-the-world cruise was waiting for them, after all.

...

[1] Aziraphale pronounced it “eye phone,” with a distinct pause, but Crowley was taking baby steps in introducing the angel to technology.

[2] Never to harm.

[3] He’d never quite got the hang of limiting his vision to only the mortal spectrum, which was the real reason he kept wearing his sunglasses. These days, no one would look twice at his eyes, except to compliment him on his contacts.

[4] Crowley had never suggested anything as absurd as sparkling vampires, though he was happy to take credit. He did, however, write a disclaimer -- in all caps -- that he was NOT responsible for Fifty Shades of anything. Hell’s response had been “That came from the Other Side,” though Crowley had never figured out precisely which angel to blame.

[5] Despite six thousand years of practice, he wasn’t very good at it.

[6] “A couple” meaning a couple hundred, but eventually he got the hang of it.

[7] There’s a reason the Almighty had posted Aziraphale to guard the Eastern Gate, and it wasn’t for his snazzy fashion sense. Under the mild-mannered bookseller was the sort of badass angel who made Crowley’s toes curl, though Crowley would never admit it.

[8] Aziraphale’s usually-upright posture had nothing to do with his angelic nature and everything to do with not straining the seams of his favourite jacket.

[9] The “Employees Only” sign on the door meant no one knew about the collection, which saved Aziraphale the trouble of scheduling any appointments.

[10]  The fact that Aziraphale always ended up even closer to Crowley was a coincidence absolutely no one believed, especially not God.

 [11] Only one entity witnessed it, and Her only reaction was to sigh and say, “Finally,” in a Voice that made no fewer than seven prophets across the world faint, overcome with Divine Vision.

[12] Other than their clothing, a thought that occurred to both corporeal entities and their incorporeal observer, with varying levels of frustration.

[13] Metaphorically and literally. Aziraphale had, in fact, taken a few hours to meticulously groom his wings after he’d finished inventory. He was just waiting for the right moment to show off to Crowley.

[14] His favourite would always be an underground club in Night Vale, with its singing crystal walls and eldritch DJ playing the screams of those lost in the Void, but he didn’t think Aziraphale would like it there.

[15] Actually, angelic smiles tended to be cold, shallow, and feral. Aziraphale was smiling like a human, which made all the difference in the world.

[16] Demons are terrible at bargaining by design. Humanity is perfectly capable of tempting itself without any outside help.

[17] A habit he’d already developed, despite having the mobile for less than a week.

[ineffable-endearments]

Choices (they’re usually the Serpent’s thing, but the Angel tries his hand with them, too)

CW: mentions of suicide/ideation

After getting discorporated, Aziraphale asks Crowley whether he went to Alpha Centauri despite knowing that Crowley can’t be anywhere but on Earth right now (Aziraphale navigated his way from Heaven using an actual planet Earth globe).

Then he indicates that he needs Agnes Nutter’s book even though he likely doesn’t actually need Agnes Nutter’s book for his own purposes (he tells Crowley to get the book, but he’s also able to find his way to the airbase without the book, he’s able to tell Crowley to go to the airbase without the book, and then Crowley brings the book and immediately gives it back to Anathema; Aziraphale does not protest, and it’s really only a matter of good luck that he managed to grab Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy as it floated by).

Aziraphale could have skipped the song and dance about Alpha Centauri, and about needing his book, and skipped straight to “Hallo, please meet me at Tadfield Airbase.” But he DIDN’T. These smaller asks are gentle hints, ways of trying to probe whether Crowley is still willing to help him out after those two enormous fights they just had.

AND. He probably already knows the answers. He probably knows Crowley will always help out. Aziraphale still wants to give Crowley a choice before getting him involved in confronting the Antichrist directly. I am not quite sure whether he’s doing it for more selfless reasons (purely wanting to let Crowley be safe) or self-centered ones (wanting to reassure himself that he’s been chosen). I suspect, though, that it’s both.

At the Tadfield bus stop, too, Aziraphale suggesting that the bus driver should drop him off at the bookshop is another request for Crowley to make a choice. He may or may not remember that the bookshop is gone, but even if he thinks it’s still there, I don’t think he wants to go there alone; if that was the case, then the timing of the statement would be rather awkward, maybe even unnecessary. This is to say nothing of Aziraphale’s facial expressions, which practically shout “this is not just about the bus ride!”.

I think by saying he should have the driver leave him at the bookshop, Aziraphale is stating that he intends to stay here on Earth, but also isn’t sure if perhaps Crowley will deal with his own angry Side by leaving Earth (as Crowley had suggested earlier that day), and he wants to prompt an invitation to stay together but only if Crowley wants to give that invitation (meaning he plans to stay here).

I’ve analyzed the phrase to Hell and back, but it can’t be said enough times: “I don’t think my Side would like that” is another prompt for Crowley. Aziraphale wants to make sure Crowley understands what staying here might mean for both of them (permanent death). Remember, this also comes after the delivery man asks if Aziraphale believes in life after death. “Well, I suppose I must do,” he answers, and gives Crowley a strange, loaded look.

Because that’s what they’re both staring down right now.

We comment about Aziraphale being manipulative, and he certainly can be; he is definitely trying to play a complicated three-sided Chess game with Heaven, Hell, and Earth (I think that’s what the Chess board in his bookshop symbolizes), and he almost never says exactly what he means. But he wants Crowley to genuinely make his own decisions. Every time he hints at wanting Crowley to do him some little favor, Crowley does it...but the hint is based entirely in the assumption that he’ll WANT to do it. Crowley usually has an out.

There are about 3 scenes when Aziraphale specifically does not give Crowley a choice, and these stand out for important reasons as well:

1. 1862, the Holy Water breakup. It’s pretty obvious that this breakup was triggered by Crowley’s willingness to put himself in danger. Aziraphale complains that he’d get in trouble if Heaven found out about the Holy Water, but the Arrangement has been breaking Heaven’s supposed rules for centuries now. Aziraphale just leaves, not giving Crowley a chance to argue.

2. The Bandstand breakup. It was a long and tortured argument, but there were two moments when Aziraphale tried to not give Crowley a choice. First, when they were both refusing to kill the Antichrist, and Crowley was about to walk away, Aziraphale said “You can’t leave, Crowley. There’s nowhere to go.” Second, when Crowley answered that by saying they could both just leave Earth together because they’ve been friends for so long, Aziraphale told Crowley it was unequivocally over.

One could easily say the lack of choice was because Aziraphale was angry at Crowley for not wanting to kill the Antichrist and for not trying hard enough to save the world. But remember, Aziraphale already thinks he has a plot in place for saving the planet. He’s begging Heaven to help, and even if Heaven won’t help, we already saw him making a phone call to move the humans (the “Witchfinder Army”) into position to potentially neutralize the Antichrist. Before coming to meet Crowley he had just had a conversation with Shadwell, the one after which Shadwell called him a Southern pansy.

“You can’t leave,” Aziraphale says, not because he was going to try to force Crowley to kill the Antichrist, but because nowhere on Earth is going to be safe except on Heaven’s side. Especially if nobody is going to kill the Antichrist, which neither of them wants to do.

“There is no Our Side. Not anymore. It’s over,” Aziraphale says when Crowley reveals that there is in fact another possibility, because he is not going to leave Earth and he wants Crowley to make his own decision about where he goes, without Aziraphale. In this case it’s not so much that he’s taking away all choices from Crowley as he is trying to remove himself from the equation so Crowley will make the decision for himself and leave, if necessary. It’s taking away the relationship decision.

So wait, how is that keeping Crowley safe?! Well, it’s because their relationship and Hell’s possible discovery of it is what made Crowley seek a stash of Holy Water. In 1967, when Crowley tried the church heist, Aziraphale knew Crowley was determined to deepen the Arrangement, their relationship, or to die trying.

This whole time, because of that Holy Water request, Aziraphale has been thinking he was the Dangerous Thing, that the hope of being with him is what was causing Crowley to be so careless with his own life. I think at the Bandstand, once he realized Crowley would never be “safe in Heaven’s arms” and also realized he was going to be dying here on Earth if the Antichrist was not neutralized, Aziraphale was hoping if he just removed himself from the picture, disavowed their whole connection for all time, Crowley would finally decide Aziraphale wasn’t worth the trouble.

During the scene in Soho when Crowley asks Aziraphale to run away with him one more time, Hell has finally discovered that Crowley botched the Antichrist situation. Crowley says he’s leaving, and Aziraphale does not make a move to stop him. That sad, resigned expression he wears is probably the face of an angel who doesn’t want to lose his best friend but already thinks that Crowley will be better off without him and should, ideally, be heading for the stars, if he knows what’s good for him.

And then events bring us to Tadfield Airbase.

3. Tadfield Airbase. “Do something, or...or I’m never going to talk to you again!”

The bandstand breakup passes. The bar scene - “I lost my best friend” - is the moment Aziraphale finally, finally realizes Crowley has no self-preservation instinct AT ALL without him. And then he once again gives Crowley the choice to help out. That’s one of the most notable choices he gave Crowley...but he didn’t dawdle over it, because they both already knew the answer. It was important to make it a choice, though.

They find themselves together, with a motley group of humans and the Antichrist, facing down Satan. And Crowley is once again resigned to death.

Aziraphale now knows - and, now that he doesn’t think Heaven is going to help them, is capable of accepting! - that nothing else would compel Crowley like their bond. Aziraphale has been cruel to be kind before, but never like at this moment, when he finally acknowledges the reality of their relationship and forces Crowley to keep fighting, to find some spark of hope or a creative solution somewhere.

Aziraphale thought the Holy Water, if anything, was representative of the threat he posed to Crowley’s life. There are so many ways he was worried about this, from the symbolic reality that Crowley had accepted the importance of their relationship as something that could kill them, that he would defy Hell for, to the literal reality that Crowley could use it to actively kill himself. But in the end, it’s losing Aziraphale that caused Crowley to give up and resign himself to his fate.

It’s getting Aziraphale back that gave him the spark of hope needed to carry on, and after that, Crowley finds faith in both Aziraphale and in Adam and humanity.

By encouraging Eve to eat the apple, Crowley gave humans the ultimate choice, the one that made humans what they are. And in his own way, he’s been giving Aziraphale choices, too - helping Aziraphale understand that no, Heaven’s way isn’t necessarily the only way. For the most part, Aziraphale assumes his role is to preserve the status quo.

However, Aziraphale DOES purposely frame his and Crowley’s relationship as a choice. The only times he doesn’t are times when he thinks there’s a direct threat to Crowley’s safety that can’t be mitigated. This is why the series starts with a shot of Aziraphale’s wing shielding Crowley and ends with a shot in the Ritz that calls back to the very same scene; Aziraphale has been trying to shield Crowley the whole time.

[undertheinktree]

Trust Fall (1/2)

In the midst of that storm he suddenly found Crowley’s hand softly pressing his arm. Gentle, patient, familiar. He used that touch to anchor himself to the ground, focusing on what he knew for certain was true and what he realized he needed to say in that moment, if things were actually going to change.

*****

When asked what the best spot in London to have a picnic is, many people will suggest the top of the hill in Greenwich park, which is described on the Royal Museums website as offering “the very best natural view of the city”.

These people are wrong.

This opinion is in fact so common that the top of the hill is constantly crammed with tourists specifically in search of the best spot in London to have a picnic, making it impossible for anybody to actually enjoy the time spent there.

When you are an angel, however, you often have the miraculous luck of finding the place almost entirely deserted. If a demon is with you, you may wonder for a moment what happened to the people who were supposed to be there. But then again, the view really is beautiful from up there, so you wonder just for a second and then forget about it.

Bathed in the afternoon sun, Aziraphale took another sip from his glass of red wine and let his gaze wander over the skyline: the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, Canary Wharf, the unmistakable Gherkin.

He loved London. In 6000 years he had seen a great deal of Earth (not all of it, though, and that still amazed him): endless blue seas, welcoming small villages in the middle of the desert, mountains so high he thought a jump was enough to get back to Heaven. None of them, however, had ever felt like home, apart from London. He had seen that city rise, grow, prosper, burn, change again and again and again but somehow always staying the same even after centuries.

His lips curled slightly into a smile as he looked down at Crowley, the one constant among the infinite crowds that had walked those streets through the centuries.

The demon was lying on the grass with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, his eyes closed and his arms crossed. Aziraphale focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Even after six thousand years every now and then he found himself enthralled by the human bodies they were inhabiting: so limited, so simple and yet so incredibly complicated. How many muscles were working just to make him breathe?

He ran his fingers through Crowley’s dark red hair as gently as he could, trying not to wake him.

It had been almost a year since Adam had averted the Apocalypse and they had successfully tricked Heaven and Hell and cut ties with them, completely diving into life on Earth without putting much thought into what was Right and what was Wrong.

A year generally means nothing for immortal beings. However, Aziraphale felt as if that short period of time had been the most important of his existence, as if the millennia that had preceded it had been just a dream. Maybe being that close to losing everything he cared about had put the whole immortality thing under a new perspective and made him realize that taking things for granted was extremely dangerous. Maybe he had just started to really understand humans. Or maybe it was because of Crowley and the new, odd, bond they shared.

It had happened spontaneously, as if per the laws of physics: as soon as they had escaped the force field of Heaven and Hell, they had simply gravitated towards each other and comfortably settled into each other’s orbit. It had happened with slow, hesitant steps: finally discarding the whole “hereditary enemies” rhetoric, spending time together just for the sake of it, finding comfort in holding the other’s hand or leaning on his shoulder, being able to open up about anything was going through their minds at any given moment.

That is, almost everything.

They had never actually talked about the gradual but impossible to ignore shift in their dynamics. There was no need, Aziraphale kept telling himself. It was ineffable.

Angels really appreciate the word “ineffable” because it shields them from the reality of whatever is in front of them, which is very convenient when you need to keep blind Faith in a system you don’t really trust. Aziraphale in particular wallowed in the idea that it was impossible putting into words those feelings he had finally learnt to accept. This allowed him not to face the hundreds of ways openly discussing the subject could go wrong.  

A waft of fresh air distracted Aziraphale from his introspection, caressing his face flushed by the summer heat.

A moment later Crowley’s hand was on his shoulder, closed in a firm grip.

The demon bolted upright and snapped his head left and right, eyes wide open and burning yellow.

Danger.

“What? What is it?” Aziraphale looked around for what could have triggered his senses.

Crowley’s gaze kept shifting from side to side, then it settled on the angel’s alarmed expression and softened.

“It’s just you. Of course.”

He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a dry chuckle.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

Crowley groaned, “That’s what it felt like. I remembered.” He rested his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his arms. He was silent for a while, to the point that Aziraphale wondered if he had somehow fallen asleep again.

“Heaven,” he finally added.

“Oh.”

Was that a good thing or a bad thing? In doubt, Aziraphale simply didn’t inquire further.

Silence had never been a problem for them, they could spend hours without talking and still get to enjoy each other’s company. In that moment, however, the silence felt thick and tense. Distress began to grow in Aziraphale’s chest. He was about to nonchalantly comment on the butterfly that had just landed on the handle of the wicker basket when Crowley spoke again.

“Angel. Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss it? You mean Heaven?”

“Mh.”

“Oh my, no. Do you think I miss being bossed around by Gabriel? Or being able to physically feel Michael’s enormous ego? Sure, I definitely yearn for that.” Aziraphale himself was surprised by the amount of scorn and sarcasm in his own voice. Not receiving the amused reaction he expected from Crowley, he sighed.

“I mean, you know what it’s like, don’t you? It’s boring. Cold, aseptic, empty. Order, strict rules and nothing else.”

“But that’s what it’s like now. It wasn’t like that once!” Crowley barked, “In the beginning. It was different, right? It felt good. You were there and you just felt…right. Of course, wrong didn’t exist yet. You just felt right and peaceful and…” he gestured as if words were dry leaves he was trying to catch with his bare hands “You just felt like you belonged and you were protected and…like…”

“Loved?” Aziraphale suggested, with a wisp of voice.

Crowley clenched his jaw “That.” He grabbed his sunglasses he had abandoned on the grass and put them on. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

“My friend, I believe I haven’t felt like that about Heaven in a very, very long time.” Aziraphale admitted, trying to ignore the sting of guilt in the pit of his stomach.  

“See, it changed! Heaven shouldn’t change, right? That’s their fault if they push people away, isn’t it?”

“I guess, but-”

Crowley sprung to his feet “Fuck it, who am I kidding? I shouldn’t be here. I’m selfish, okay? I wanted it to end on a good note, but of course that’s just making everything worse and-”    

“Crowley, could you for once please slow down and tell me what is troubling you?”

One of the things Aziraphale had always found charming about the human body was the way it unintentionally reacted to whatever he was feeling in any given moment: he had learnt to expect a rush of heat to his cheeks whenever something was annoying him, and he had often realized he loved something based on the fluttery sensation in his stomach even before he was able to rationally conceive it.

Fear, he had learnt, brought along sweaty palms, shortness of breath and a feeling of tightness in his throat that made his voice sound hoarse.  

He knew Crowley was staring at him from behind his sunglasses, chasing in his mind a trail of thoughts he alone was able to follow, jumping from one question to the next in a way that made sense only to him and his fascinating, unique mind.    

Why that scared him in that moment, Aziraphale couldn’t tell.

Crowley sighed in defeat and sat back down, in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was soft and his words clearly carefully chosen.

“I talked to Eric yesterday.”

“Eric?”

“Demon. Fun guy, cool lashes.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, no, not at all. It’s not that. Apparently, I’m not that much in trouble anymore down there.”

“So,” Aziraphale tilted his head, perplexed “Are you reporting again? You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m not. He came to me. He thought…He wanted to congratulate me, he said.”

“For…? My dear boy, I’m begging you to stop dancing around and just tell me. You are scaring me.”

Crowley grimaced, then took a sharp breath.

“Rumour has it they haven’t seen an angel so close to Falling in centuries. They say it’s thanks to me. My fault, I mean.”

His words dug slowly their way into Aziraphale’s mind.

It took him a few seconds to fully understand what they meant.

Fear tightened its grip on his throat.

“Oh.” he managed to say.

“It’s you. I’m sorry, Aziraphale.”

A low buzzing sound filled his ears, mixing up his thoughts and Crowley’s voice.

He was going to Fall.

“I should have known. I didn’t think it would get to this point, I didn’t think-”

How much longer would it take?

“I know a demon’s word isn’t worth much, but I swear I never wanted this, it was never my intention, I just-”

What was he supposed to do?

“I really shouldn’t be here. I should speak to Beelzebub. Would it help? They might intercede or whatever, I don’t know-”  

Would it hurt?

“I should be banging on Heaven’s door threatening to burn the whole place down if they even try to-”

How much would it change him?

“For Hell’s sake, I should have never talked to you in the first place, it would have been better. How was I supposed to know that-”

“Crowley, will you stop making this about yourself, please?” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley froze for a moment. He frowned, incredulous.

“I-what- How is not wanting you to Fall ‘making it about me’?” he hissed.

“I just mean…give me a moment, alright?”

His voice was quavering. He had forgotten how to breathe. Of course, angels don’t really need to breathe, but in that moment he had forgotten that too. For the second time that day Aziraphale wondered what were the muscles responsible for that automatic and yet apparently arduous act, and why he couldn’t seem to make his own work.

“You are talking as if you’re responsible for this. Let me tell you, you might be an amazing tempter, but I believe in this case you are giving yourself too much credit.”

“Listen, I’m just saying-”

Aziraphale raised a finger, asking for silence. He closed his eyes, trying to quiet the noises in his head and disentangle the skein of conflicting thoughts, emotions and unanswerable questions that kept hitting him like ocean waves.

In the midst of that storm he suddenly found Crowley’s hand softly pressing his arm. Gentle, patient, familiar. He used that touch to anchor himself to the ground, focusing on what he knew for certain was true and what he realized he needed to say in that moment, if things were actually going to change.

He was finally able to take a deep breath.

“I love you, Crowley. You know that, right?”

Crowley audibly gasped. He straightened his back as if an ice cube had just slid down his spine. Aziraphale wished he hadn’t put his sunglasses on, so that he could at least guess what he was feeling behind the blank expression that had appeared on his face.  

“Of course, you’re an angel, that’s what you do.”

“It’s not just that. I just… I love you,” he reiterated, realizing that saying it out loud made it sound obvious. He should have said it ages before.  

Crowley inhaled deeply and balled his hand into a fist, pressing his lips on his knuckles.

“Don’t. Why would-  Don’t do this to me. We’re not having this conversation right now,” he said in a brittle voice.

Aziraphale bit his tongue, aware of having bigger problems at hand than the disappointment he felt rising in his chest.

“What I mean is that when you say that you shouldn’t be with me now or that it would have been better if we’d never met, well, you can’t say that lightly. It’s me we are talking about here. I suppose it’s up to me to decide what is or isn’t worth losing, am I right?”

Crowley hummed in agreement.

“And if indeed I Fall, it will be because of the decisions I’ve made. Can’t argue with free will, can you?” he took the half-empty bottle of wine from the basket and took a gulp. “Besides, it will still be better than when they tried to kill us, right?”

“Aziraphale, I don’t think you understand how serious the situation is.”

“Oh, believe me, I do. I’m just trying to stay positive. The show must go on.”

“Don’t quote Queen against me,” Crowley groaned, “Angel, we must do something. I’m trying to help you. Falling? You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Then tell me about it,” he replied. A moment later he realized what he had said and brought a hand to his mouth “Oh no, I’m sorry. There really is no need. I’m sorry.”

The demon sighed. His Fall had been a sort of taboo between them for six thousand years but, given the circumstances, talking about it was inevitable. He snatched the bottle of wine from Aziraphale’s hand and swigged from it before talking.

“It’s hard to describe, to be honest. Let’s just say that it… It rewrites your entire existence. Everything you have been up to that point doesn’t matter anymore. You are an angel, you are light, you are love, you are joy…  a moment later you are Falling. That’s all you are in that moment. Nothing else. Stuck in a limbo.”

He looked up at the London skyline. They had been there for hours, the sun was beginning to set, colouring the sky in pink and orange hues.

“It burns. Yes, physically, your wings are literally on fire,” he chuckled bitterly, “but it’s mostly something you feel deep within you. You can try and miracle it away, but it just keeps resurfacing. I guess that’s Grace leaving your soul. Or maybe whatever goodness is left in you by this time just rejects what you are becoming and tries to kill it while there’s still time.”

Crowley’s voice was so low and guttural Aziraphale could barely hear. He slowly moved closer, right to his side, bewitched by the trance-like state the other seemed to be in.

“The Fall feels like it lasts a century. Then, as you’re bracing for the impact thinking ‘there we are, let’s get this over’, just then you find out that not even the ground wants to touch such an unworthy being and so it opens under you and you just keep Falling, deeper and deeper. And just when you start to believe that’s what your existence is going to be like, that you will just keep Falling for the rest of Eternity, that’s when you finally crash. And that’s literally the worst Goddamn pain you can ever feel. It’s like the whole weight of Heaven and Earth was dropped on your chest.” He took off his glasses and slowly rubbed his eyes.  

Aziraphale brushed his arm tentatively, expecting him to flinch. Instead, Crowley leaned his head on his shoulder.

“From that point it’s just Hell. Loneliness, disgust, fury. Hatred for what you were and hatred for what you’ve become. It takes centuries to learn to feel anything else again. If you ever do. I was one of the lucky few.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost contemplating different versions of Hell. Aziraphale almost believed to see a flaming trail crossing the London sky.  

“You can’t Fall.” Crowley’s voice at that point wasn’t much more than a whisper “Not you. You’re too good. Nothing good ever came out of that.”

“You did,” Aziraphale stated, matter-of-factly. Crowley didn’t answer.

“I wish I had been there to help you. At the time. But I will be all right, Crowley. I’m certain of that.”

“I will catch you.”  

Aziraphale felt a sincere smile forming on his lips. There it was, among terror, pain and grief: Crowley’s optimism. The idea that, if he wanted it hard enough, he could just catch a Fallen angel, simply pick him up and carry him out of Hell.

Aziraphale doubted that was possible. However, he took what little Faith was still left in his soul and put it in those words.

“I know you will”.          

part 2

[notlikeotherbirds]

Mamihlapinatiopai

Based on this I wrote a thing. Hope you enjoy

They sat at the Ritz, somehow sitting at the same table as always without making a reservation. That wasn't really the weird thing, miraculous-yes but not weird. The weird thing was how the staff seemed to not have picked up on it yet. Or at least they never mentioned it. But then again they never scolded them anymore for not making a reservation, telling them they were lucky that a table was miraculously free (with which they would have been right) so maybe they did pick up on it. But never the less here they sat. For the 4th time this month already. Aziraphale was just finishing his desert revelling in the taste of the bite. They talked about something, it didn't really matter, maybe a book that Aziraphale found somewhere or maybe a shared memory of a person long dead and a time long gone. What was important was that Aziraphale talked and Crowley listened, leaning on his arms slightly leaning towards the other. What mattered was that they were here together. They might have denied that if you had asked them, saying it was for the food or the social interaction or their shared history. But really all of those things, while being nice, were mere a bonus to what they really got out of this. The company of the other. Crowley watched Aziraphale talk hiding his eyes behind his sunglasses and hoping to hide his comfort in the situation behind it too. He really mustn’t show his affection he told himself, while also not really making the extra effort of not leaning in when Aziraphale spoke and not spending every second of his free time with the angel (Not that he had anything but free time anymore) and not constantly making up excuses to be around the angel. It was for safety of course, that they spend so much time together. Two were stronger than one after all (Crowley blatantly ignored the fact that if it really came down to it they wouldn’t stand a chance, he really couldn’t stand that thought). But even if he might spend a lot of time with the angel and even if that was the only time that mattered to him and even if he was miserable whenever the angel wasn’t around that didn’t mean Crowley would ever do anything about any of it. Really he had spent 6000 years ignoring the hell out of his feelings (What self-respecting demon had feelings anyway) and he wouldn’t change that now. Anyways the angel probably didn’t feel the same about Crowley anyway. He had stated more than once that they were enemies and enemies don’t like each other. And even if he did, it was how Aziraphale had said before they were an angel and a demon, even if they were both disregarded from their respective head offices. It would be disastrous if someone were to make a move, wouldn't it. Crowley shifted a little closer to Aziraphale. Yes absolutely disastrous.

Aziraphale talked and Crowley listened. Aziraphale liked how the demon always bent his way a little when he told him something. Not that he would admit that. But it was nice having someone who listened to you, who didn't disregard your interests. But that was all, he needed someone who would listen so he didn't have to talk to himself. It was definitely not that he kept talking to see Crowley loosen up a bit tilt his body in a way that made it not so unbelievable that he used to be a snake, see him get comfortable enough for that little smile to crawl on his lips and lighten up his face. No that would be ludicrous. He shouldn't think things like that. Demon and Angel he reminded himself. Yes they were enemies who ate together occasionally and helped each other out now and then and maybe averted the apocalypse together but really what was that if not helping each other. And really would it be so bad if Aziraphale liked Crowley? I mean the whole love thy enemy was a big thing in the realms of heaven. He was a being of love after all, it would be against his nature to hate anything. It was really just the general love of everything that the Almighty had given the angels that also applied to Crowley since he was a part of the big everything. No more than that. Anything else would have been dangerous after all, She saw everything didn't She, or was that Santa Claus? Irrelevant since there was nothing to see anyhow.

Crowley shifted closer to Aziraphale and he responded despite himself (or maybe not despite himself but just because he wanted to) by shifting a little closer too and gesturing wildly between them to emphasize whatever he was saying.

After they paid the check and left for the Bentley parked outside Aziraphale asked: "Do you fancy coming over to the bookshop? I have some bottles of excellent wine that would be wasted if drunken alone." Crowley's eyes lit up, not that Aziraphale or anyone else would have noticed, since he was wearing sunglasses. And Crowley really didn't want anyone to notice either. He had a reputation as a demon. And he definitely did not want the angel to see, he might get the wrong idea (or the right one). "Sure, don't see why not, alcohol is always an answer." He responded sure to emphasize the reason that was completely irrelevant and not mention the actual reason why he accepted. The drive was as always, Crowley purposefully ignoring the traffic regulations and Aziraphale complaining helplessly about it. Arriving at the bookshop Crowley almost hesitated, waiting for a sign that the offer didn't stand anymore waiting for a goodbye and a wave off but Aziraphale just headed straight for the bookshop, convinced that Crowley was right behind him, never even bothering to stop the conversation they held during the car ride (even though it was continuously interrupted by their driving bickering). When Crowley didn't answer to what Aziraphale had just said he stopped and turned around, seeing Crowley still at the Bentley. "Are you not coming, dear?" he said more anxious that he would care to admit. For Crowley this was more than enough of an invitation and he left the Bentley for the Angel and his Bookshop.

Inside they continued the conversation and their little pretend game. Pretending to not be interested (not very good at that one), pretending to not see the others interest (they were frustratingly good at that one) and pretending that they would be fine with the relationship stayed like this for another few thousand years. Although they both knew that they might not have that time or the patience for that, as a matter of fact. And they might have won some time and some freedom since the Armageddidn’t but with that they had lost an important excuse as to why they really shouldn’t make a move.

Crowley wasn’t dumb. He might have been an idiot and at times very incompetent but he wasn’t dumb. And he wasn’t blind he saw, of course, how the angel reacted to him. Both the loving, longing (wasn’t that a sin?) looks and the happiness that danced across his face when Crowley did the exact right things (buy him food, listen, be interested, occasionally do him a favour, be less mean than expected, save him, save his books, the little things). But Crowley also saw the rejection, the fear, the apprehension when Crowley moved to fast or said something that reminded the angel of their positions. So if Crowley wanted this to last he would have to be patient, as he always had been, and hope that the angel received his messages of love and affection (after all he should be able to sense love shouldn’t he?) and decided to respond to them. And oh how he longed for Aziraphale to respond.

Aziraphale was not dumb either. He was actually quite intellectual. And even if he might not be the most up to date on things 21st Century he was very up to date on feelings of affection and ways of showing them even in this time and age. He knew about emojis and sexting and dating apps and kinks and slut shaming and Fuckboys. He was very well informed on everything love, lust and sex related. He had a membership in a gay club and was a big defender of ace and bi visibility and cared for the decriminalising of sex work quite a lot. And yes of course he knew about pornography, unlike some other angels who didn’t seem to take the whole ‘being of love’ very seriously. So of course he picked up on Crowley’s love language ages ago. And yes, he could sense his love, it was hard to miss after all. It would have been hard to miss even if he could not have felt it like a 6th sense. The dear boy was not as subtle as he wished to be, despite his best efforts. So technically he knew about Crowley’s affection for him. But it was one thing to know something but a different thing to believe something. But wasn’t believing his whole thing as an angel? Well that all got way more complicated as soon as Crowley came into the picture. Asking questions Aziraphale could not answer, questioned choices Aziraphale had no control over whether he liked them or not, sparking feelings he really should not be having, making him feel at home in a way heaven never managed. Believing and Crowley did not go well together in Aziraphale’s mind. But even if he were to believe a demon were to be able to love an angel and even if he were to believe that the demon was Crowley and the angel was him, knowing and believing something was still something very different than acting on all of this. Because even if in some hypothetical (Aziraphale was good with those) he were to love a demon and that demon were to love him back, how could he tell him. Really, angels were not the kind of beings that went out there and started engaging with people, asking things of them, taking up space in someone else’s world. Angels were silent string-pullers, they blessed people, gave people strength to act on their good ideas. They were givers. If someone asked something of an angel it was very likely that they would receive. Angels gave love and hope and blessings and strength and such but they did not ask for things. That was not very angel-like. They did not ask questions and they did not ask favours. They did not ask for comfort and they did not ask for love. So Aziraphale would not ask. He was on thin ice anyway and under the ice was no water but a long fall and then boiling sulphur and to be completely honest he was not keen on crossing the line that would break the ice that would at last make the Almighty see what a bad angel he really was. If loving a demon would not cross that line, asking for a demons love surely would. So he really needed Crowley to initiate the whole thing. Because if he was asked he could give and really who could say anything about that. So he would just hope for Crowley to at last toughen up a bit and ask him already. Really any amount of asking would be enough he could work with about anything. He just really couldn’t initiate.

So they stayed how they had been for 6000 years. Keeping each other closer than anyone else. Trusting each other more than anyone else. But keeping a distance. Enough to fool certain supernatural entities. And maybe themselves. And maybe each other. They stayed where they were, across from each other at the table and on separate Sofas in Aziraphale’s Bookshop. Maybe moving closer an inch or so every century. And maybe if they had another 6000 years they would just naturally drift so close to each other, that that distance would be gone. But who knows how much time they had left? God probably, with Her ineffable plan and Her unknowable playing rules. But you really couldn’t ask her now could you. So maybe they should, in Aziraphale’s words ‘get a bit of a wiggle on’ and cross that distance now. They might not make it otherwise.

But for now they sat in Aziraphale’s bookshop and drank whine and pretended not to be in love with each other. Hoping that the other would see through their bullshit and see how desperately they wished for the other to know and to do something about it.

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

FIC: The Undone & The Divine

She knew that something was wrong with her the moment she found herself crawling out of the pool of black, inky goo deep, deep down in the bottom layers of Hell.

As she clawed and crawled her way from the black abyss, the pool of lost souls and destroyed demons that she had only ever heard quiet, horrified whispers of in the centuries within Hell, Ruby knew something special had happened.

Something impossible had happened. And as she coughed out the remains of demons she had coughed and spluttered upon on her way out, Ruby had no idea what it was and that terrified her.

It hadn’t taken long for her to slip her way up through the secret, back passages that so few demons even knew of any more. The hidden ways through the different layers of Hell, the quiet, silent and deafeningly black corridors behind the eternal screams and screeches. She’d spent the first fifty Earth years of Hell hiding in these places, forming a mental webbed map beyond any other demon’s knowledge of the secret places, and when she had emerged back then her eyes had been as dark as the hallways she had become the unseen ruler of away from the prying eyes of those older, powerful beings that ruled down there.

This trip however had barely taken her a week of Hell time to make her way out and crawled her way back onto Earth, back to where she could feel the throbbing impossible telling her to come back to.

---

It had hurt constantly. Every single thing had hurt her for months.

Catching a flash of long dark hair - hurt. Hearing a pant of a laugh in some library - hurt. Seeing the elongated shadow of some tall man walking across the street from her - hurt. The dark, deep rumble of an old muscle car - hurt.

She had even stopped eating her precious french fries for a few months, the pain of the salt burning her mouth could not cut through the aching throb she felt each time she tried one instead. That dark, throbbing ache that followed her around every corner, every road she found herself travelling and every face of those she interacted with.

Some of them were worse than others.

Some people knew who she was immediately, and had a judgement right away. Be it her as a horrible manipulative bitch, or her as a spineless betrayer, or as an outcast sliver of the worst, weakest parts of Hell. Each of those, especially those close to the situation who knew her, knew what she had done and what she had given up for the task appointed to her, felt like she was back on Alastair’s table with salt pouring down her throat and her screams silenced behind the straps keeping her in place.

Some people didn’t know her, and those were in some ways even worse. To see the lack of knowledge and awareness of all that she had done, all that she had sacrificed and then either the dawning of hatred or vaccant distaste cut like iron knives across her skin, prickling fire tracking their hate but not cutting deep enough to maybe even slightly cut that pounding ache from her core.

She’d realised around month ten, watching the pathetic shadow and his hunter from afar as they danced that terrible tightrope of hunter and huntee - hurting each other and hurting themselves just as much - exactly what that ache was. It had hit her like a ten-tonne truck colliding with a fragile little human, smearing her across the groun in it’s path and she ran from it.

She ran from it hard.

---

Ruby never let her demonic eyes flash any more.

Facing down Crowley she would force the inky depths to stay back, hidden behind whatever girl’s eyes she had at that moment. Fighting with Lilith, the darkness would stay carefully concealled. Talking to the shadows, it would not flash no matter how angry or surprised she was. The archangel? God no. He would notice immediately, same as all the rest. And she did not need anyone to know of this.

She’d noticed it not long after her big revellation - the idea of that word spurring laughter from her every time she thought of it, how goddamn Biblical it all seemed to her in retrospect.

And it had just kept getting more and more noticable the hotter and harder that pain had gotten.

Somedays she barely remembered the pain was there, so used to the consistency of it like someone pouring Holy Water constantly over her soul, that on occasion she would forget and catch a glimpse of the receeding darkness in her true eyes in a shop window or a mirror - nowerdays as Crowley had been unpowered and Hell returned to it’s normal status quo of shit, she could even see the whites around the black, her demonic visage only really covering the iris any more.

Other days, like when she’d occasionally pop in to speak with the little blonde huntress about something or other - usually questions on demonology from the hunter’s end, or a request for some weapon or spell ingredients to be assisted with that the demon couldn’t touch on her end - the pain was so fucking palpable that Ruby struggled to remain calm on the surface and keep the fading darkness at bay from wanting to rear up and swallow her back up whole again.

If she could have visualised it, that dark burning sensation would be coming from the space between her ribs and stomach where her burning knife had been thrust into her so many years back; no matter which body she was in.

---

Twenty-eight months she’d been back before she finally saw who had caused the change in her. It was twenty-eight months since she’d crawled out of Hell before she finally spotted the hulking man through lit windows at the small rundown house.

His brother was there, the blonde woman was there, and if she focussed enough she could feel the shadow there as well somewhere else. But what she was caught up on was him.

She’d known it was him for almost two years, and she had found only one person to speak to about it - even if the fucking shadow didn’t believe a word that came out of her mouth, and every  conversation for her had been tinged with the dark, deep envious desire to demand he share with her how he had succeeded, how he had managed it, how he had somehow created for himself the world that she had wanted - and was struck again realising it was due to that person she was able to be this close again.

Ruby had found herself pressing up against the side of the house, dark hair of her body at that time getting coated in spiderwebs as she stood on her toes to look in the window, watching hungrilly and silently as the trio had talked. She didn’t care what it was about, there was the odd name thrown out as well as raised voices from the older brother that made her snicker a little. She didn’t care about the how’s or why’s of the pair being in the little house, all that mattered was the way that pain, that delicious, excrutiating pain that had been taunting her for two and a half years was irratiating through her like a Holy fire, soaking into her every crevasse and making her feel brilliantly light for the first time in over 600 years.

Sam moved about the room like a vision compared to the tiny huntress and his blundering brother to her. His smile was that same one she knew so well - the sweet curl of his lips and the tiny dimples that would form on either side of his face - as was the timbre of his laugh. Those had been hers, all hers for four months, four sweet gorgeous months where her mind had been too focussed on her task to appreciate them for what they were. The way he would sit, reclined in a relaxed fashion but the ever taunt preparation in his shoulders - his pensive shoulders proudly on display at that moment as she watched him while the other two snapped at each other - was another of her lasting marks on him, she knew that was developed with her, those few months spent enjoying one another’s company, one another’s bodies, one another’s space, but never being able to truly relax together.

The tightness in her core, the tightened coiled spring that held her together, finally seemed to release as she caught a look of him approaching the window and looking out into the dark street. She shrank down into the dark shadow of the window pane, looking up as she held her breath. He was so fucking close for once, but the window was as strong a barrier as iron or salt alike. The invisible barrier that truly kept her from him, the one that her mind screamed at her if she broke through she’d disappear completely, felt stronger even still.

Ruby had hidden in the dark corner of the building as the other pair - the hunter and the hunter, but not the brother’s - had left, the rumble of the cars engine and the pain previously caused by those in past making so much sense to her as she remembered the times spread across the backseat, or the trunk, or hood of that very car with the heavy, hot body above her as she turned her back to it and crept back to the warm glow of the window again.

She didn’t leave the window again, hands tightly gripping the sill as she stood on her toes to look through as the hunter prowled about the room, as the hunter moved to fluff up pillows on one end of the sofa, as the hunter flicked the light off and the room was swallowed up into darkness. She didn’t leave, eyes fixated on the other as he settled in to sleep, a small smile on her face as she saw his feet hanging over the end of the sofa’s arm rests, his boots tucked neatly beside the end of the sofa, and his arms thrown in a pile over his head.

She didn’t leave until the sun started to break over the sky and there was a growl from beside her. She had looked down at the massive wolf’s form, raising a brow at the yellow eyed form of the other as she sank back down, calf muscles aching from being in the same position the whole night, and let go of the sill. There had been a stare off between them before Ruby disappeared away in a waft of light grey, almost white smoke.

---

If she thought the other pain was hard before, it was nothing to the gnawing hungry beast of desire and hurt that was rolling through her now. Ruby had spotted the man sneak in through the upper window. She had seen him and she knew what he was there for and she was tempted to set the whole place ablaze so she could reach them in time. If the house was on fire enough, there would be no devil’s traps that would be keeping her like she was now - stuck outside watching through the kitchen window as the psychotic hunter went at him with a knife.

The twist and tightness as her very being screamed at her to intervene. Fuck the devil’s traps, get caught in them but help in some way for the hunter. Fuck the secrecy of her being there, help him gain the upper hand. Fuck the shadow inside and the crazy-ass hunter attacking him, get in there and fuck that psycho’s shit up for touching him. For doing the one thing she can’t fucking do. For daring to try to harm her hunter with that crazy insanity of his.

Instead she was trapped outside, trapped in a new Hell of her own making watching it happen. Watching the scramble for weapons, the thrusts and the parries and the brutality of upclose hand-to-hand combat without being able to lift a finger to help them. Watching as Sam pressed a hand to the slice on him, while the shadow cowered and did nothing to protect himself or Sam alike. Thankfully it was over quickly, and she hid behind the shed as the two men carried the body into the shed itself, Sam’s voice so soft, so rough, so excrutiatingly haunting to her as she pressed her back against the hot metal of the shed itself. It was hot like Hell, and burnt through her from just how close she was to his presence.

As the pair headed back inside, Ruby made an impulsive decision. Nabbing the body and vanishing away, she intended to take out her frustration and pain in desecrating the corpse of the one who dared harm him. Her eyes might not look like one any more, but she was still a demon deep down inside, at least so far as she could tell.

---

[hekate1308]

Once Upon A September, Chapter Two

Lawrence

Castiel groaned.

Crowley, while apparently unshaken at the spectacle in front of them, was quite as annoyed, if the way he showed the last Dean impersonator the door was anything to go by.

“Dear God, these guys were all pathetic.”

“Maybe you can’t just fake being of noble blood” Cas tried, but Crowley shook his head.

“No, Feathers. I will admit that a little something called dignity is always a plus, and that there is a certain charm one’s either born with or doesn’t have, but surely someone has to know how to play a prince.”

“There’ve been no plays in over eight years. Maybe all actors – “

“Come on. I’m still here, you’re still here. Someone in this godforsaken kingdom has to remember how to act.”

“Republic” he corrected him automatically.

“Not in my house.” Crowley sighed. “I think we should go to the Palace, check out a few of the old family paintings. Maybe if we get someone who looks enough like him, we can train him.”

“He was just a child – “

“Hair and eye colour don’t just change spontaneously when you reach a certain age. Let’s go!”

Castiel followed him because he had nothing else to do.

Lawrence, a few miles away

Michael had no idea what he was doing.

Sure, he knew something as stupid as a black feather had told him to go to Lawrence, but now he was there...

It wasn’t too late yet to return and go to the factory. It wasn’t too late to at least get a job.

But there was something about the city drawing him in.

Drawing him to a specific place.

He ended up standing in front of the old palace. Somehow, he knew exactly how it had looked like back in the days of glory, the days only few dared whisper about; the days of the Winchesters.

Michael had always been fascinated by the former royal family, but not because they had been by all reports excellent kings right until the revolution no one could explain; no, because of the tales of how much the king and queen had loved their children, Prince Dean and prince Sam.

He had always imagined that if he found his family, they would welcome him with as much devotion.

These days, the palace was deserted. Few dared approach it, but no one even looked at Micahel as he approached it.

It was easy to gain access.

Michael strolled through the abandoned corridors, imagining how it must have been, almost a decade ago. Had the princes played in the hallways? Had they been allowed to interact with the other children? Had the king and the queen made sure they saw them at least once a day, despite their many obligations?

He stopped and leaned down to pick up a few pieces of colourful glass. It wasn’t difficult to guess that they came from the window that had been broken by a brick, most likely on the night of the revolution most people wished had never taken place.

The glass still sparkled in the sun whine he held his hand up.

“Mom, what are they doing?”

She smiled at him. “They are renewing our windows... and this time, there’ll be colours.”

“I love colours!”

She chuckled and ran her fingers through his hair. “I know. And once they’re done, you can see the colours dancing across the wall.”

He shook his head, unable to explain where the scene had come from. It happened now and then, faces and rooms popping into his mind and fading away just as quickly. He knew there was no point to hold onto the blonde woman; she would disappear like everything else he’d ever tried to grasp about his past.

Michael continued walking around, unable to explain what he was searching for, but feeling that it was important.

Finally he came into what must have been the throne room. At least it had been called that; the Winchesters had in fact done away with the throne or any royal regalia generations ago, one of their tutors had confided to them one day; King John and Queen Mary had been sitting on simple chairs when they had listened to their subjects’ petitions. But once upon a time, there had a throne, and therefore the room would always be called that.

Even now, with Michael standing amongst the ghosts of a recent past that felt centuries away.

Just like his own.

He slowly made his way through the room the room, walking up to where the royals’ chairs would have stood. They had sat in front of a painting of their family.

The Winchesters and their two beloved sons.

Michael’s eyes scrutinized every single one of them, until he was just starting at the oldest child. Prince Dean.

They must have been about the same age. At least Michael believed he had been ten years old, minus or plus a year or two at the most, when he had been found.

Dean. A good name, really. He didn’t much care for Michael, but it was as good as any other until he found his real one-

“Now, now, what are you doing here?” a voice drawled behind him. He reeled around.

The palace, a few moments earlier

“It looked different back when I was a child.”

“And the prize for the most asinine comment goes to – “

“Not what I meant” Cas mumbled. “It seemed – bigger, that was what I was trying to say.”

“Everything seemed bigger back then.” Crowley pointed at a dark corridor. “That was where the royal suites were located. Dean had his painted all in blue, and with lots of toy carriages. He loved them.”

Castiel was beginning to wonder just how much time Crowley had spent in the palace before the revolution. As a kitchen boy, he’d never been informed about the guests of the King.

“The kitchens are then other way” he replied. “I always enjoyed cooking.”

The revolution had hit his whole family hard. The income the children had provided – he and Gabriel had both been working in the palace, although his happy-go-lucky brother had been a page rather than a kitchen boy – had disappeared over night, just like their tutors and their hopes of something better for all of them.

“Don’t look like that” Crowley scolded him. “Things are looking bleak, I grant you that. But either you are like all the other sheep and just drudge along, or you try to do something better.”

“I don’t think betraying a family’s hope is necessarily – “

“Details, Feathers, useless details.”

They had reached the throne room, where the old family painting was still hanging from a wall, five happy faces staring at nothing.

Or rather, someone.

Crowley reacted first.

Now

It was a good thing Castiel wasn’t alone, because he was looking at one of the most gorgeous men he had ever seen.

He had long been aware of his desires, and thankfully people like him were no longer persecuted in Lawrence; not even Metatron had dared change the Winchesters’ policy of live and let live.

“Aren’t you pretty” Crowley mused. “I have to say, for a burglar you give a girl all sorts of naughty ideas.”

“If I’m a burglar, you tow are as well” the main answered smoothly.

“What an astute observation, I can tell we – “ Crowley began but stopped abruptly, frowning. His eyes flew from the young man (maybe two or three years younger than Castiel, but why he registered that, he couldn’t say) to the painting and back again, and it didn’t take Castiel long to realize what he was thinking about.

The man had vibrant green eyes and brunette hair, like the boy Castiel remembered leading through the palace as it had been destroyed.

Crowley cleared his throat. “I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Name’s Crowley, this is Castiel. Who are you?”

He looked at them, clearly suspicious, but seemed to decide to risk it. “Michael.”

“Michael and?”

“And nothing. I don’t ask about your first name either.”

“Castiel is my first name.”

It was the only thing to say he could think of.

Michael – somehow, the name didn’t seem to suit him, like a piece of clothing a number too small – snorted. “Alright. So, last name?”

“Novak.”

“What about you, creepy guy?”

“No one has ever heard my first name and lived, my dear.”

“Not your dear.”

Crowley suddenly stepped up to him to scrutinize him. To his credit, Michael didn’t step back.

“What the hell – “

“Anyone ever tell you that you bear an uncanny resemblance to the lost Prince?”

He laughed, but it was not a nice laugh, not a happy laugh, not one Castiel wanted to hear from this beautiful person ever again.

“What is this going to be? Some “make a poor schmuck believe he’s actually a prince” joke? This ain’t Cinderella, pal. My own folks didn’t like me enough to stick around and I ended up in a hospital with no idea who I was. Still don’t know. So if you could kindly – “

“He’s got spunk. That’s good” Crowley mused as if he hadn’t heard him, “Dean was only ten years old, but you could already tell he’d be trouble when he grew up.”

“What – you knew the Prince?”

“Crowley” Castiel said resignedly, “Knew everyone. Still does.”

Crowley smirked. “Remember that.”

“I will – look, guys, I really don’t care, so I will just – “

“Now, now, not so fast” Crowley said, reaching out for him.

Michael answered by shoving him to the side.

“Alright, alright” he raised his hands. “No touching. More’s the pity, but as you wish.”

Michael huffed. “What do you want?”

“You see, we’re in a bit of trouble – “

“You are” Castiel said firmly.

“Come on, fathers, we’re in this together.”

“Because you decided we are.”

“Alright guys can you do anything else than bicker for half a minute? This one” Dean pointed at Crowley, “Clearly has an offer of some sort to make, and right now I’ve got nothing – I might even be desperate enough to take it.”

It was music to Crowley’s ears, no doubt, but Castiel would rather not have involved someone who looked so pure in their scheme.

“Just hear me out. I am guessing you are not the biggest fan of our president either?”

“How do you know that?” Michael asked, his eyes narrowing. Naturally, he was suspicious. Metatron’s agents were everywhere.

If Crowley hadn’t had his own reasons to want him gone, Cas could have easily imagined he’d have been one of them.

“Because you’d hardly be here, staring adoringly at a picture of the royal family if you were an admirer of his?”

“I wasn’t staring adoringly” Michael muttered, “I was looking at it. I was curious.”

“My point exactly. Now, here’s the thing. The one who has a right to the throne – the one who could kick Metatron out – is Prince Dean.” Crowley gestured towards the portrait. “Prince Sam will never be seen as having a better right to the crown until it is proven that his brother is dead, and that’s practically impossible. And the family has been looking for Dean ever since he disappeared. So we thought we’d find someone who looked like him – “

“An imposter, you mean” Michael said.

“Exactly. Hell, we could even be open about it with the royal family – I am sure they are eager to get rid of the president.”

Castiel wasn’t sure Crowley was telling the truth. He certainly wanted the money the Winchesters were ready to pay.

On the other hand, he really hated Metatron, so who knew? It would be just like him to keep his real motives a secret, too.

“So you want me to do what? Play the Prince? I have no idea what to do! I don’t even know with which fork to eat dessert!”

“That can easily be arranged. We only need you to be believable for a few months. Then you can step down and let Prince Sam have the throne.”

Any sane person, Castiel knew, would say no. And yet, despite everything, he desperately wanted him to come with them.

Michael blinked. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but fine. I’m in.”

[apostate-crowley]

Sauntering Vaguely Downwards

Rating: G

Words: 20,153

Characters: Crowley, Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, Beelzebub, Aziraphale, Sandalphon

Tags: Crowley was Raphael before he fell, religious crisis, heresy and blasphemy, angelic patronages, the archangels are siblings, pre-fall, the seven days of creation, the fall

Warnings: two mentions of suicide ideation and a graphic description of fire during the Fall

please ignore how pretentiously this starts off okay

+++

Day 1

The creation of the Earth was not actually the first thing to ever happen.

That date-- Sunday, October 21st, 4004 BC-- named merely the creation of the universe. God, of course, exists outside of it. There was God, and there was Time, and then God decided to create some archangels because she's not all that into heavy lifting or doing her own dirty work.

There were four of them. They existed nowhere and no-place, they had no bodies, they had no plane to exist in, no distance or spatial sense. There was Time, passing, and an awareness of four spirits, and absolutely nothing else. There was no sense of being surrounded in darkness or pure stark whiteness, or some other color entirely. There was no way of knowing if there were great tracts of space separating them all or if they were huddled together, stacked on top of each other like newborns.

They just suddenly existed.

Years and centuries and millennia later, Crowley would think he had felt very young at the time.

My children, a voice said. It didn't speak directly into their hearts or minds or anything like that. They didn't have any. Their souls, perhaps.

It also was not one of the four spirits, and they could not sense it at all.

I have brought you into existence to fulfill a grand purpose. You are to create a plane of existence, and fill it with wondrous things. Set aside one most perfect planet, and I will fill it with beings like yourselves.

In a state of nonexistence without sound or language yet, these words were not spoken so much as they were understood.

There was a moment of stillness as they contemplated those massive orders. They were the first orders ever given, and while the archangels had no concept of almost anything, they seemed immeasurably daunting. Frankly, though, the Almighty could have asked them to fetch her a coffee and it would have seemed immeasurably daunting.

Read on Ao3

Perhaps it was a moment, perhaps it was an eon.

Raphael thought, and considered, and imagined--

There was some sort of a bang. They were engulfed in heat and light and color, and it was already dissipating, spreading out and leaving behind cool emptiness and darkness.

They were aware of each other.

-----------------------------------------------------

They spread out after that, each creating in their own separate direction. They had quickly discovered that energy can be turned into matter. It was good, honest, tiring work, but they never seemed to deplete themselves entirely. Raphael was planning on inventing something to renew their stores of energy, though, he had had quite a bit more earlier in the day and would like it back.

They were aware of each other, and they were aware of themselves, in a way that was very odd and completely natural and deeply intrinsic. He was Raphael, God's chosen Healer, he would bring health and life and resurrection to the other beings. He is to be patron of the blind, of travelers, of doctors and nurses and medical workers. Those ill, in body or mind.sa He is a special protector of sailors and pilgrims on their voyages. He is herald of happy meetings, matchmaking, and marriage, and he doesn't know what any of those are yet, but he knows he is meant for them, that that is God's personal plan for him.

He has been given a staff, to guide and direct the feet of men, to lean on and shepherd.

He is Raphael. God Heals.

He is working with Michael, and they are creating the stars.

He knows Michael's destiny as well as he knows his own.

Michael is the advocate of the Jewish people, the strongest of the archangels, and is destined to arise in the time of the end, herald the second coming of the Christ, and be the one to personally face and defeat someone called 'Satan.'

These are largely empty words. Almost none of those things exist yet, not even as concepts, and the end of time must be very far away, because they are all fairly certain that time has just begun.

Michael is for mercy, time and time again, for long-suffering, for last-minute saves. Michael is the soldier, the great defender, the leader of the Army of God. She is to become known as the demon-slayer, and painted a thousand and one times killing a great snake or dragon.

She is the only archangel who has been granted two gifts: both a longsword and a shield. The shield is to defend those of Jewish descent, the innocents, and all those who need one last chance. The sword is to fell those for whom mercy is not an option.

She is Michael, Who Is Like God.

Michael's destiny is confusing, to say the least, nearly nonsensical in practicality. Why would they create something called 'demons' just for Michael to destroy them? Why would anything ever need to be un-created in the first place? It's not like they're going to run out of room. They could always just make more.

But anyway. They are somewhere off in the universe, and they are creating stars.

"The next one should be purple," Michael said. Raphael's face twisted. "Oh come on!" she said. "We've only done two purple ones."

"And that is more than enough."

"What do you have against purple stars?"

"No, we agreed earlier. We were going to color-code heat. Purple is a ridiculous temperature for a star. It's way too high."

"A bluish purple, then. It'll only be a little over 30,000 Kelvin," she said. 

"Fine," he said. "But we're putting it near the center, alright? It won't make sense anywhere else."

She nodded, businesslike, just a hint of excitement, and grabbed his hand, and they flew on ethereal wings through nothing, needing no friction or wind to reach the center of the universe. Michael let go of him and spun around extravagantly, hydrogen pouring out of her hands freely, infinite amounts-- enough to fuel a star.

Raphael grinned and gestured with his staff, stirring up entire deserts worth of stardust. He made it dance, like a conductor at an orchestra, spinning and twirling and threading through itself, a myriad of particles and folding and refolding, following a complicated pattern that only two beings could see. The dance was seamless, flawless, exquisite. It grew faster and faster, like a sea turning stormy, and the dust started to crash into itself. Heat grew at the center, and the particles buzzed faster. They started to gravitate, to condense and crash and rub past each other at impossible speeds.

Michael threw her hands up dramatically.

There was a spark, a tiny flicker of light, and the whole thing caught fire.

It had taken them billions of years, or maybe half an hour. None of them knew how to keep track of Time yet.

They were floating, somewhere, looking out at it.

"What are you thinking for the Perfect star?" Michael asked.

"Something yellow," he said. "Medium-sized, temperate."

"Medium?" she asked.

"As a median measure, Michael, not a mean one."

"That's so boring though," she said. "What about green?"

"There's no such thing as green stars."

"That's what'll make this one so special."

"We should probably talk to the others," he said. "The Perfect star's a big deal, isn't it? It's for the Perfect world. It should probably all be group decisions."

She rolled her eyes. But nodded anyway.

They hadn't come up with any... system or anything. But they could all sense each other. Except for Her, whoever she was. The archangels were as conscious of each other as they were of themselves. Right now, Raphael knew that Uriel was creating little things, like themselves but-- simpler. Not capable of feeling quite as much or as deeply, most content to follow orders, and each generally meant for one specific task. And Gabriel was creating something very big, and difficult, but almost laughably basic. It existed halfway in the universe and halfway out, and functioned like semi-intelligent echo machine. He was calling it Metatron, and he was hopeful that it would make Her more inclined to speak to them again.

The two of them wanted to speak to the others, and so Uriel and Gabriel knew, and they appeared.

"The Perfect world," Uriel said. "You are ready to make it?"

Michael nodded.

Uriel had a beautiful purpose. She is the angel of repentance, of light, of poetry and beauty. She is patron of both the arts and the sciences, and was given a scroll to contain her infinite wisdom. At the same time, she is to stand watch over thunder and terror, and she will be the angel of Hell and the Earth. Her role is as different from Michael's as possible. Time and time again, she will give the humans warning well in advance of something bad, and help them prevent it before it even becomes close to an issue. And when she can't do that, she will be there afterwards, offering repentance and wisdom and showing humans how to create beauty themselves. She is, quintessentially, an angel for peace, for light out of darkness.

Frankly, the only reason she wasn't creating the stars was because she insisted her little creatures were more important and they had to be done just right.

Raphael didn't question it. Uriel was the artist of their lot; surely she knew what she was talking about.

The healer, the warrior, the artist.

Uriel. God Is My Light.

"The creatures I am making," she said. "They are just like us, in a way, but there are differences. They are not as sturdy, more delicate. I was not able to give them as much power as we have. They'll function well enough as helpers, but they aren't really like us."

"Disappointing," Gabriel said. "But this is about the Perfect world, not your little..."

"Angels," she said. "I call them angels."

Gabriel is to be the messenger of God. He was given a trumpet, to herald his arrival and his sayings. He will become humanity's most well-known angel purely by virtue of how often he appears before them. He will deliver prophesies, revelations, make grand announcements, and interpret dreams and signs. He is to be patron of messengers-- telecommunication workers, radio broadcasters, postal workers, and stamp collectors. He is to watch over the angels themselves. He will be known by some as the keeper of holiness and the peacock of paradise.

Gabriel. God Is My Strength.

"The angels are relevant," Uriel said. "She said She is going to create other beings, but that they need a world to live in. If this is true, then they must be even more delicate than the beings I have created. We'll need to be very careful. Their world will have to be soft, and comforting, and free of danger."

"What's the point?" Michael asked. "They're going to have danger eventually."

"What do you mean?" Raphael asked.

"The demons," she said. "Evil ones come to harm our little creatures. Even if we just kill them right away, that still means there will need to be a war. There is no safe way to have a war."

Raphael frowned. "We could keep it off of Earth. No chance of innocent bystanders then."

Michael huffed. "The demons want innocent bystanders. They're hardly going to be so accommodating and move their battlefield if we ask nicely."

"I don't understand why there have to be demons," Gabriel said. "We're the ones creating everything. Can't we just not create demons? I mean, guys, come on. How badly do we have to screw up to let our one perfect world get infested with demons?"

"I don't think it works like that," Michael said. "Obviously, no one wants demons. None of us would ever dare create one. So that must mean it happens by accident, right? One of us is creating something, and something... goes wrong."

Gabriel turned pointedly to look at Uriel. She glared back.

"Oy," she said. "I am good at what I do. The angels are all pure souls. Perfectly obedient. I think, in time, they may even be capable of learning. Feeling more, even. If anyone is going to create a demon, it certainly won't be me."

"Maybe She creates them," Raphael said.

Michael shot him a sharp look. "Don't say things like that," she said. "It's rude. We're wasting time. There's no point arguing about who's fault demons will be. They're inevitable, and if they don't happen one way, they'll happen another. You can't prevent the future."

"Michael's right," Gabriel said. "We are going to have to deal with demons. The humans are going to have to deal with demons. We need to keep that in mind when building their planet. It needs to be as safe and secure as possible."

"Right," Raphael said. "I've been thinking about that, and I have a lot of ideas. First of all, the universe is a bit messy. There's all this space junk and scrap material floating around, and that's not even counting all the stuff that's going to break down in the future. I propose we put some really fucking huge planets in rings outside the Earth. They'll have a higher gravity, and most of the space junk will crash into them instead. Like big safety magnets to keep the Earth safe."

"Agreed," Michael said.

"I don't think we should put the Earth right next to its star, though," Uriel said. "The poor dears might overheat. We should put some planets in front of it, too, give it a bit of a buffer."

Gabriel summoned up a scroll and plucked a white feather from his wings. He set the scroll down on air and began to draw up a diagram.

"After we're done with the Earth we should really look into building an office or something," he muttered. "This is ridiculous."

"Any thoughts on the star itself?" Uriel asked, looking directly at Raphael.

"Don't--" Michael started.

"Yellow," he said. "About yeh big, lukewarm, and let's put, say, 50 million years on it."

"Do you have any idea how many yellow stars he's already made?" Michael asked. "All 'main sequence' this and 'sustainability' that. By the time humans actually get around to really looking, there's only going to be a handful of hypergiants left."

"Humans don't need hypergiants. They need a stable, temperate environment and minimal UV exposure. Look, I'm the doctor here--"

"You are definitely not a doctor."

"I am a doctor, and I'm telling you, any other type of star would be way too extreme for them. We could maybe consider a smaller white one, but I'm serious about this, guys. Their climate is going to be tricky enough to stabilize as is, and God only knows what we're going to do about atmosphere damage. I know it's not the most exciting thing in the world, but a star that is completely average in all ways is definitely our best bet here."

Uriel nodded. "I agree with Raphael. Besides," she said. "I like the idea of golden light."

"Ha HA!" Raphael crowed, preening. Michael shot him a near-lethal glare.

"That does sound pretty sick," Gabriel said. "Golden star it is. I'm marking it down."

They made the solar system, set in a mid-range zone of an average spiral galaxy, and they made a young star and grew it to maturity and gave it a set of planets.

After fierce debate, the Earth was created with very precise specifications for its orbit, size, and placement among the other planets. Then they covered it entirely in water, mostly to get Raphael to shut up about hydration already. Uriel had a proposal about giving the humans tails and gills; it was being considered.

In one second, the entire universe fell silent.

They couldn't feel Her presence. There was no physical or mental sensation that accompanied it. But.

The entire universe fell silent, and the archangels turned to look at the Earth.

It was slowly tipped on its side a bit, its axis tilting. In an instant, the oceans were flooded entirely with salt. A good-sized moon appeared around it, drifting lazily. The waters on the surface of the Earth moved and shifted, swaying and gathering and crashing in waves.

The Earth spun, starting a gentle rotation, and it began to move in its orbit, as if it had been given an encouraging nudge.

Let there be light.

The sun, so far dormant, was flicked on.

And that was how the first day passed.

----------------------------------------------------

Day 2

"Okay," Gabriel said. "So I've written up a current status report for us, and I've gotta say, guys, it's not looking good."

Raphael drummed his fingers on his staff. Currently lacking anywhere better to meet, the archangels had gathered together to sit cross-legged on one of Saturn's rings. The rings, being made almost entirely of ice, were not nearly as pleasant or inviting as they had looked from a distance.

"Right now the Earth is one big puddle of salt water and entirely incapable of supporting human life. Metraton says God has nixed the mermaid idea, so that means all that water Raphael insisted on is... undrinkable. Completely useless. Not to mention-- if humans aren't going to be water creatures, then making the entire planet out of water was a big mistake. We really screwed the pooch on day one, guys. Wow."

"We already know this," Michael said. "Don't you have anything new to say?"

"Well," Gabriel breathed, and Raphael felt something like an itching sensation inside his chest, and it made him desperately wish that Gabriel wasn't talking anymore and they were doing something else. "I went down there, and it turns out the whole planet is covered in an impenetrable layer of fog so thick that you can't see the sun through it. Also its unbreathable. So, um, the agenda for today: try to fix the atmosphere, get the seas all sorted out and divided, and, also, we still need an HQ."

"Can't that wait?" Michael asked.

"Not really, no. My butt is going numb from sitting on this stupid planet ring," he said. "Also, Metatron was pretty specific. God wants to divide the waters of the Earth, create an expanse, and build Heaven. I'm thinking all white, lots of glass-- very sleek, very modern. What do you guys think?"

No one else cared enough to answer.

"So that's it?" Uriel asked. "Sort the water into oceans and build a Heaven? That's all we're doing today?"

"Creation of the entire universe and physical plane of existence one day and the next we're designing an office," Raphael muttered. Uriel shot him a look, and he couldn't quite interpret it.

"I'll... work on the parting of the waters, but really, I think it would only take one of us to build Heaven," Michael said. "And I'd prefer to spend the day getting to know the lesser angels. I'll have to lead them as an army one day. I need to take stock of their abilities and start assigning them ranks. With your permission, of course, Uriel. They are your beings."

"They are all our beings to share," her sister said. "I created them and gave them each a purpose, but any of you are free to direct them. It's your job to turn them into the Army of God and lead them into battle. Whatever you need to do to prepare for that, you do."

Michael nodded. "Thank you." She turned back to her brothers. "Sorry if it seems like I'm skipping out. But--" she grinned, "--it's time for angelic boot camp."

"I'll also be skipping out," Uriel said. "Not for the part about Earth, of course, but I think Michael's right about designing Heaven. It should be easy. And..." She frowned. "There aren't enough angels. I can feel it. We need more."

Raphael nodded. "Whatever you think is best."

Their sisters stood elegantly, primed their wings, and took off in a blur. Had they been in an atmosphere at the moment, there would have been a whoosh of air and the clap of a sonic boom.

Gabriel grinned and flung an arm over Raphael's shoulders in a half-hug. "Looks like it's just you and me now, buddy!"

Raphael mustered a smile.

------------------------------------------------

They decided to create Heaven outside of the universe. It was originally going to exist metaphysically, but then they realized that creating a concept is all well and good, but people cannot physically go to a concept. Then they had about a three-hour debate on the nature of metaphysics. It gave Raphael quite a few ideas for Hell. He thought it should be mostly filled with annoyances.

In the end, they created an external miniature universe attached to the outside of the main one, containing solely one office building with multiple levels. There were three basements for Hell (which wasn't enough, but that was a problem for the demons to figure out), an excessive 28 upper floors for Heaven, and two floors closest to the "ground" that technically belonged to neither. One was for the Celestial Observer offices and one was for the Infernal Times. It wasn't clear who exactly would be staffing those levels, or why they were kept separate from their main realms in the first place, but then, neither Gabriel nor Raphael were actually good at thinking things through.

"I'm not saying the parallel escalators acting beyond the laws of physics are necessary. I'm saying it'll look cool," Raphael said.

"Hell doesn't need anything that looks cool. They don't deserve cool stuff. What Hell deserves is a creaky, cramped elevator from the 1970s with fake wood paneling and a carpet that's falling apart at the seems."

"Ugh," Raphael said. "But the symbolism! The metaphorical power of the entrance to each realm looking exactly the same--"

"We already agreed metaphors are stupid and hard to understand, Raphael," he reminded him tersely.

"Okay." He leaned forward, shifting completely and gesturing as he spoke. "Think of it this way. The creepy elevator probably would be cool to a demon."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's spooky, see? I bet they'd like that. Seems haunted. Exactly the sort of thing you'd expect a demon to inhabit."

"Isn't that the point?"

"No."

"No?"

"The creepy elevator would be giving Hell exactly what they wanted," Raphael said, sincere as anything. "We need to go with the not-at-all-metaphorical escalator. From a moral standpoint."

"Huh," Gabriel said. He shrugged. "Alright. Sandalphon, write that down. The main lobby gets twin escalators."

"Consider it done, my lord." Sandalphon scratched down the instruction on his scroll.

Early in the day, Gabriel had run past Michael's boot camp on Mercury and snagged one of the angels who had been sorted into the "last resort" category. He had declared Sandalphon his personal assistant, and the lesser angel had been immediately relieved to get the hell out of there.

Sandalphon was the patron angel of unborn children. He had a vacant smile and was very good at agreeing with everything Gabriel said. Raphael supposed Uriel had warned them that the other angels were... not like them, but still. He supposed he hadn't quite believed it.

When she had said they might be able to learn, he had taken that to mean that they were learning, that they were feeling and thinking and growing more complex and mature and individual by the hour.

And then he had actually met an angel, and seen absolutely no evidence of the being having a will of his own.

Useful helpers, Uriel had said.

"Now," Gabriel said. "I know we don't technically need it, but have you thought about air conditioning? I'm thinking we set all of Heaven at, like, 60 degrees and then give Hell no a/c and also it's really muggy."

"60?" Raphael asked. "Bit chilly."

Gabriel shrugged. "We're angels," he said. "It speaks well of our asceticism. And self-discipline! A proper angel does not care about either pleasure nor pain. The physical is irrelevant, and comfort is a slippery slope to hedonism. It'd be fucked up if angels started seeking things out just because they liked or enjoyed them. You start doing that, and next thing you know, you're committing ten sins a day, because it's fun. No. God's work isn't supposed to be fun. It's tough and it's grueling and it takes real effort and determination, a tougher kind of soul. The easy way out is the path to sin."

"Right you are, my lord," Sandalphon nodded.

"I know, and I agree with that," Raphael said. "But I think keeping Heaven perpetually uncomfortable might lead to a bit of resentment."

Gabriel shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"

-----------------------------------------------------

The second day, being such light work, was essentially done with before noon. God had shown them all sleep the night before, and Raphael took advantage of it, indulging in a short nap on the waves of the Indian ocean, wings and limbs sprawled out luxuriously. He discovered that water felt pleasant, and that his hair turned dark and moved of its own volition when submerged.

It was cold, and misty, and sunless, but it was still infinitely better than Saturn's rings. Or-- God forbid-- the corporate monstrosity that Gabriel had turned Heaven into. He could only imagine what his sisters would have to say about that.

Probably nothing, actually.

He hadn't said anything either, really. Why bother with preferences? Gabriel was right, to a degree. He didn't think discomfort was something to aim for, but luxuries and indulgence and physical pleasure definitely weren't either. Heaven was functional. That was all it was required to be. That was all it should be.

It would be one thing for a human to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh a little bit, in moderation, keeping in mind that their first and primary joy should be doing the Lord's will. It was quite another for angels to seek out those same pleasures, when they had no need for any of the physical drives that compelled humans.

Angels do not need warmth, food, water, fresh air, sleep, entertainment, hobbies, favored friends...

Angels don't need a lot of things. But a nap did pass the time.

He woke up feeling a bit guilty, a bit agitated, and flew off to Mercury. He could check in on Michael's camp, at least.

The camp had fifteen barracks in three neat little rows. It had a bunch of other buildings Raphael could only guess at the purposes of.

It was also, for some reason, encircled with a completely pointless barbed wire fence.

He frowned flying over it and touched down in the center, next to Uriel. She was watching Michael spar with her arms folded, looking focused and vaguely perturbed.

"What's going on?" Raphael asked.

"Just look," she said.

Michael was sparring with an angel. Raphael looked at them, into their soul. Qaphsiel. Angel of tears, of temperance, presider over the deaths of reigning monarchs. Would be present at a lot of future revolutions.

Michael had her sword in her right hand and her shield strapped to her left arm. It appeared that Qaphsiel had been issued a sword dripping with lightning. Raphael looked closer, and he saw speed and anger-- both in the name of God, of course.

They were, of course, entirely outmatched. Qaphsiel fought without thinking, entirely reactively, and Michael fought... well, like she had been born to do it. She was a force of casual strength and power, almost leisurely in her movements, and Qaphsiel whipped around furiously, a blur of rapid movement. Sparks flew everywhere, and at some point, Michael's shield was completely electrified.

Seconds later, she had Qaphsiel pinned to the ground and practically frothing at the mouth.

Michael stood up, releasing her opponent. Qaphsiel jumped to their feet, threw their sword to the ground, and marched off into the gathered crowd of spectators. A good number of other angels heckled them as they went.

"Who's next?" Michael called.

A small wisp of a girl stepped forward. She had a large, gray-patterned quill in her hand, which she handed over to a fellow angel and was then given a simple shortsword. Michael had apparently created a store of weapons, for those angels who were not naturally battle-inclined.

This angel was Penemue, curer of stupidity. A mostly quiet watcher. There was... something off. Raphael couldn't see any more.

She took her sword up hesitantly, and held it... correctly, but only in the most technical sense. She waited for Michael to strike first, and then seemed to make only a token effort at defending herself. She was disarmed in thirty seconds, and didn't seem phased at all. She gave a small smile and a shrug in response to the crowd’s jeering and... shouts of encouragement.

Raphael frowned.

"How many have been like that?" he asked.

"Too many," Uriel said.

"Have they been... talking? Why are they doing this?"

"I don't know what's going on. I do know none of them are stupid enough to say anything outright in front of an archangel."

He considered that. Michael finished her parting bits of instruction to Penemue, and a new angel took her place. Jehoel. Angel of fire. Seemed to actually take this seriously and make an effort. Thank God.

"They can tell you're an archangel?" he asked, watching the fight. It was going well. It might even last a full five minutes. Jehoel was good.

"Michael announced it," Uriel said. "I flew in when she was giving a lecture on, like, tackling or whatever. She stopped everything to announce me and made everyone bow."

Raphael made a noise.

"I know," she agreed.

"Well," he said. "She hasn't done that with me, at least. Maybe I can figure something out."

"Good luck," she said. He raised an eyebrow, giving her half a smile.

Luck was an occult force, naturally, an evil thing to believe in, much less to wish upon someone. Only God should be invoked for granting good fortune. Anything else is idolatry.

Raphael gave his sister a parting wave and sauntered off.

---------------------------------------------------

The camp was larger than it had first looked from the air. Even with 50-70 angels crowded around to watch Michael decimate patiently decimate all of them, there was still a huge number just roaming about. It didn't take long to find a fair group of them, sitting around in the shade of one of the barracks, carefully keeping out of the scorching sun.

Raphael took a seat among them unceremoniously, and the angels closest scooched over a bit to make room.

"It's a bit messed up. That's all I'm saying," one angel said, clearly on the tail end of a rant.

"What is?" Raphael asked. Someone else rolled their eyes, and several people groaned.

"Don't get him started again."

"No, no. He should hear this," the first angel said. "This affects all of us. We're angels, right? We were created to... what, serve? Fight and die in some war? What war? Against who? And we're fighting for God? Well I've never met God. I didn't agree to this, I didn't ask for this. I was born yesterday and told I'm meant to be cannon fodder for some distant unknowable God. Who says She's worth it? Who the hell said I was willing to die for Her? To kill for Her? Because it sure as fuck wasn't me."

The other angels made rough sounds of agreement.

"I'm... not meant for war," he said. Azazel. This was Azazel. "I can feel it. And Michael and Uriel and them, they can see it, too. It's my destiny. I am meant to teach humans, and to lead angels, and to rebel. There's something more there, too, there's this word I keep seeing-- it's 'scapegoat,' but I don't know what it means yet."

An icy chill flung itself over Raphael's heart.

"Rebel?" he asked. "Rebel against what?"

Azazel shrugged and laughed, sort of hollowly. "I don't know yet, but right now, I'm thinking this bullshit."

The other angels and cheered encouragement. 

Azazel gave a slanting grin, but then sobered up again, his eyes dark and his tone serious. "That's exactly what it is, though. Bullshit. The archangels do not speak for me. God does not speak for. No one should be able to decide my life and death. I am not a pawn, I am not to be used. I'm a person, dammit!"

The angels cheered.

"I have rights!" Azazel continued. "I have a right to live! I have a right to decide for myself who I worship! Or don't worship! Who says I have to give my life in service to someone else? Why give me life just to tell me it's not truly my own?"

"The draft is immoral," another angel spat.

"The draft is immoral!" Azazel shouted, louder.

"Vive la révolution!" someone else shouted, and it was chaos after that.

-------------------------------------------------

There was something of a war council room, in one of the base's many outbuildings, and Raphael went there with the instinctive knowledge that that's where Uriel and Michael would be.

"Well," he said. "I found out what's going on."

Michael leaned forward, hands folded on top of her desk.

"There's dissension in the ranks," he said dryly. "It appears we have some angels who are unhappy being forced into war."

Michael frowned. "But it's inevitable. We will all be forced into war. Every creature in existence will have to fight in this war. There's no avoiding it."

"Yeah, well try telling them that," he drawled, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. "It's like they think if they just refuse to fight, then maybe they can have peace," he said. He frowned. "Could we have peace?"

"No," Michael said, in a tone that brokered no argument. "The demons are pure evil and cannot be allowed to continue. It's too dangerous. We need to wipe them from existence."

"Too dangerous?" he asked. "Wait, so choosing to start a war that all of creation will be sucked into is less dangerous than trying to make some sort of an agreement with the demons? What about... What about the innocents? Children? Humans who aren't really on one side or the other? They shouldn't... They shouldn't suffer the horrors of war."

"Casualties are inevitable on all sides, Raphael," Michael said calmly. "And if they are truly innocent, there is no shame in martydom. There's a good deal of honor, actually."

"There's nothing honorable about a dead kid," he said. "A dead kid is a shame on all the adults who allowed it. Every single person who failed them. That's a stain on all of our souls."

Michael rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter if they die, Raphael," she said. "They just go straight to Heaven. Well. Usually."

----------------------------------------------------

Day 3

"Okay!" Gabriel said brightly. They were in a white conference room in Heaven. It had a long table with more empty seats than they would ever need, glaring fluorescents, uncomfortable chairs, and chrome accents. It was entirely possible that one of the levels of Heaven was actually just ten identical clones of this room, to be used almost never for meetings-that-could-have-been-emails and left empty the majority of the time.

Felt a bit wasteful. They probably could have used that space as more 'living' quarters for deceased human souls. Raphael wasn't exactly sure where they were going to put all of them. He knew the space worked miraculously, but still, he wondered if it was possible to reach maximum capacity. Maybe he should bring that up later, attempt to work out a back-up plan.

"So we have a lot on the agenda today," Gabriel said. "Yesterday was an anomaly, don't get used to it. Today we are creating landforms! We are then going to cover these landforms in plants. Should take all day, and I'll be up front with you guys, it sounds like it's gonna suck."

They agreed to make seven continents, to go with the seven seas, because God had decided that seven was a holy number that signified completion.

Gabriel made Antarctica and Europe. Michael made North America and Africa. Uriel made Australia and Asia. Raphael made South America and all the world's islands.

He just kept creating more and more species of tropical plants, and he kept yammering on about biodiversity and medicinal uses, and he knew it was annoying, but he couldn't seem to shut up.

Uriel smiled gently and said they were all works of art, the Amazon Rainforest his magnum opus, but he saw Michael roll her eyes and Gabriel smother a laugh.

He felt something strange in his chest.

He went down to the Earth personally at times, pulling fruit apart with his hands and dropping seeds onto moist dirt. The Earth was still covered in a haze. It was light enough to see by, just barely, and it was keeping things hydrated.

He wandered his rainforest, and he could just imagine it, full of life and loud. He'd have bugs, bugs everywhere. God, he hopes he gets to create some bugs. And there'll be animals! Swinging from the trees and scittering into the undergrowth. There'd be large things that stalked the jungle like kings, there'd be small things that burrowed into the trees themselves. And he'd picked a prime spot, really, it would be a true rain forest.

Birds. So many birds. He'd criticized Michael for her gaudy stars, but hell, he wanted colorful birds. Big and bright and loud. The Earth was so silent so far. Even with the plants, it still felt lifeless.

He needed proof, constantly and verbally. He would fill the Amazon to the brim with life and make it buzz and hum and sing.

When he got finished with South America, he flew west to an island and wondered how he could make it different. He knelt in dark, lush dirt, his gown and hands and feet and face already smudged with it, and he grinned.

When he returned to Heaven, filthy and exhausted and sweating, beaming like a jackal, Gabriel gave him a disapproving frown and pointed him to the showers.

"No wonder it took you so long," he said. "The rest of us finished hours ago. What, were you planting things by hand?"

"Yeah," he said. "Only a little bit, though. There's something to be said for doing things the long way. Caring for the Earth like a human would, really experiencing the world and putting yourself in their shoes. That's what it's all about."

"No it isn't," Gabriel said, frowning. "We're supposed to prepare the Earth for the humans and then hand it off. Distant protectorship only. We have serious matters to handle that mortals aren't capable of comprehending. The assignment today was to plant, Raphael, not to play in the dirt like a child. It's one thing to take joy in the Lord's work, but She can't have you wasting time that isn't your own. You get that, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Right."

Gabriel smiled. "Showers are on Level 5, left of the human soul dorms."

 -----------------------------------------------

The main problem with angels so far is that Michael, carrying a longsword, soaked in mortal blood and leading one group of humans against another, seemingly at random, is considered the most out of all of them, like God; while Uriel, advocating science and art and forgiveness-- enlightenment-- is often overlooked or forgotten to be an archangel entirely, as if there are just three of them, or she is tacked on as an afterthought to make it an even number. There's something deeply horrible in that, but fuck if Raphael can put it into words.

He knows, in theory, that none of the archangels are greater or lesser than the others. It would just be nice if the rest of creation would get the memo.

Unfortunately, sending a memo would probably just make them worship Gabriel even more.

--------------------------------------------------

The showers were these sort of ultra-modern air-blaster thingies, no water needed. Very efficient. Made you quickly and flawlessly clean. Raphael stepped out feeling a bit like he had just fought a tornado and lost, and he just knew that his hair looked like it.

He put on a fresh robe and stepped out of the showers, then hesitated.

The work for the day was done. He had fulfilled his assignment. There was nothing more that he had to do.

He could go visit the lesser angels and hear them talk, give them a chance to air their grievances. Explain to them why following the Almighty was just and good and desirable, a privilege really. Tell them why their cause was holy.

Because demons (who didn't even exist yet) were bad, and need to be stopped. Because She created us, all life, and so we owe Her.

He left Heaven discreetly and flew back to Earth.

The trees in the Amazon were tall. The canopy was thick. Even if there had been anything to see beyond it, Raphael wouldn't have been able to.

When he got tired of thinking, he closed his eyes and made it all go away.

-------------------------------------------------

Day 4

"There is no work today," Gabriel announced.

"What?" Raphael asked.

"No work," he said.

"We can't possibly be done," Michael said. "There are no humans. Unless-- Is She making the humans today?"

"Nope," Gabriel said. "But she is parting the great fog of mist that has encased the Earth. Should make it possible to see the sun and the moon and the stars from the surface. Also, it'll apparently make breathing way easier. Should you wish to indulge in breathing, of course. I don't recommend. It could be jarring if you need to suddenly stop for some reason."

"So, wait, we're clearing the fog today but we aren't doing any work?" Raphael asked. "Oh. Oh! She's clearing the fog?"

"That is correct," Gabriel said. "Metatron has relayed the Almighty's wishes to me directly. The air is going to be remixed in preparation for humans being given the breath of life. It sounds like very delicate work. I recommend that we all avoid the planet today."

His gaze wandered over to Raphael, who stiffened in his chair.

"This is excellent news," Michael said. "The other angels are hopeless in a fight. We have no way of knowing how long we have until the demons crop up, and we are woefully unprepared right now. Unless any of you need some, I'd like to put every single angel through their paces today."

"Agreed," Gabriel said. "Well, except Sandalphon. I'm planning to use this bit of free time to get the office organized. I need him as an assistant. I need to assign a secretary, set up a filing system, design forms, figure out what we could use forms for... There's so much to do, guys."

"I think I'll invent the written word today," Uriel said.

Michael hummed. "That's lovely."

There was a beat of silence.

"Raphael?" Michael asked.

"Oh!" He sat up, snapping to attention. "I, uh... I'll figure something out. Um, I've been meaning to talk to the other angels, actually. Give them a bit of a pep talk. Strengthen our troops, ya know?"

Michael gave him a thin smile.

-----------------------------------------------------

Michael was giving a swordfighting seminar to a crowd of a thousand angels. Unfortunately, Uriel had managed to make 20 million of them in two days, so that meant most angels weren't in attendance.

Some of the more trusted angels had been put in charge of their respective barracks and told to make sure everyone did their exercises. This did not happen.

Gabriel was allegedly working on arranging for civilian angelic housing in Heaven, but who knew how long that would take? Especially since all the plans, memos, and notices were currently written in random inkblots that conveyed concepts through magic. It worked, a bit, but it was very unreliable. Having a written language would be-- to borrow a phrase-- a godsend.

Probably should have invented that earlier, really. In fairness, they are all very new at this.

Raphael was wandering the base camp, letting his feet guide him on instinct. He felt something momentous in the air. A thrill of excitement and importance.

There was no work today, but that didn't mean nothing was going to happen. Twenty million souls in existence. One of them was bound to do something interesting.

As it turned out, something interesting happened in the mess hall.

Azazel was sitting on top of a long cafeteria table, gesturing and speaking passionately. He had a much larger audience than his small handful of listeners two days ago. Raphael frowned and moved closer.

He suddenly stood up on the table, near-shouting, and the crowd grew more agitated. They went from murmuring to shouting. Raphael saw another angel jump up on the table and punch a fist into the air.

"God has no inherent right to rule and we should be able to choose our own system of government! We create our own society! We should start a democracy! I reject--"

He never got to finish the sentence.

They were all on the top floor of Heaven.

The kid was standing apart from the crowd, in the center. His eyes were wide, his wings bound in heavy chains behind him.

He wasn't a kid, really. Raphael reminded himself of that. His physical form may look young, but that was merely an illusion, and even then, his body was old enough to be technically an adult.

Didn't stop him from looking like a scared kid looking frantically out at the crowd.

Uriel stepped forward. "Lucifer," she said. "Bringer of light, angel of Venus. You have questioned God's authority. You have asserted that one such as yourself is fit to rule in Her position."

She stared deeply at him. Tilted her head. "You regret that you are in trouble," she said. "But you still believe what you said was truth."

She straightened. "I sentence you to Hell."

Uriel stepped back to the edge of the crowd. Lucifer's face drained rapidly of all color.

And then the floor dropped out beneath him.

------------------------------------------------------

10,000 more angels fell in the next three hours, righteous rage and sympathy taking root in their hearts.

Raphael watched and watched and watched.

The gush slowed to a flow, then a trickle.

He felt numb. He got on the escalator. He went down to Hell.

In the center of the lowest level of Hell was a shallow pit filled with fire. It was filled with lowly creatures and insects. The demons were groaning, wailing in agony. Some were dragging themselves out of the pit. They put their bodies back together, as close as they could to what they had before. They were covered in warts, in gashes and injuries. They were missing parts and had parts discolored. Their feathers had all burnt off in the fall and immediately grew back, this time in stark, shocking black. Some of them were missing feathers, some of them were still smoking. A lot were crying blood.

Raphael walked as close to the pit as he dared. "I'll heal you," he said. "Anyone who needs it. Come over here, and I'll heal you."

---------------------------------------------------

He found out there were some things he couldn't heal.

He couldn't turn black wings white again. He couldn't get rid of the warts or slime or horns that some had acquired. He couldn't erase the memory of the Fall.

Penemue had described it haltingly. She said it had taken eons, that she had wanted to die, that she had felt part of her soul be ripped out. Raphael had wanted desperately to tell her to stop, that he knows she is the curer of stupidity but he would really rather be stupid and ignorant about this, he didn't want to know, thanks.

He didn't, though. He said nothing. He listened. He healed her burns and broken bones.

It had been a long, hard Fall.

The demons kept coming. Whatever was happening up above wasn't stopping. And there were so many of them, just so many, and Raphael could only heal one demon at a time. Demons are capable of healing things too, of course-- but not heavenly injuries.

Being stabbed by a human with a human-made sword is vastly different from a God-given weapon rending your very soul in half. Fortunately, none of the demons had been smote. Bound and pushed down a 34-story drop had dire physical effects, but it wasn't fatal.

Raphael left briefly to go upstairs and request more angels to come down and help. He promised repeatedly that he wouldn't be gone more than five minutes.

"So that's where you went," Michael said.

"Yeah. Listen, I really need more angels, specifically healers. There's too many of them down there. I've barely made a dent in it."

"Good," Gabriel said. "That's good."

"What?"

"That you've only healed a few. Better than the alternative," he said. "You aren't going back there."

"What?" he asked. "No, that doesn't make sense. Even with a thousand angel healers, I'm the best qualified to direct their efforts. I need to be down there."

"No you don't," Michael said. "Uriel is the angel of Hell. She is the only one capable of walking through there unscathed. What you have done is a fluke, obviously. We can't risk it again, and certainly not any more angels.

"Where's Uriel, then?" he demanded. "Someone needs to go down there and heal those people. I promised."

"She's still damning the traitors," Gabriel said. "You know, her actual duty as the angel of Hell. There's a line formed now, and a long one, too. People keep talking. She'll be busy for the next few days, at least."

"Then I need to go back."

"No. Absolutely not," Michael said. "The point of a punishment is that it's bad, Raphael. It hurts, mentally or physically or both, and it makes you realize you were a moron and brought this on yourself and it fills you with regret. You undoing the punishment right away is in direct counter to God's wishes."

His eyes flashed. "You want them to suffer?"

Michael folded her arms. "No. Of course not," she said. "I would prefer they hadn't sinned at all. But since they have, they have to pay the price and face the consequences. They all know what they are by now."

"It's sick," Raphael said. "This is sick. Let me heal them."

"Raphael," Gabriel said, gently, resting a hand on his arm. "They aren't worth the trouble. You aren't meant to heal demons. A righteous person is meant to hate that which is evil. It's okay, you know. There are exceptions to love for all things."

Raphael's ears were ringing. Funny. He hadn't known they could do that.

"Ah," he said. "I-- hadn't considered that. Thank you."

Gabriel nodded. "Of course."

"Want to come back and watch more of the trials with us?" Michael asked. "It's very spiritually uplifting. Creation is all well and good in its own way, but there is no greater work than keeping God's kingdom clean and free from reproach. Separating the wheat from the weeds, as it were."

"Ah," Raphael said, again. "Um, no thank you. All that healing, it-- a bit-- sapped my energy. Angels definitely aren't meant to perform miracles on demons, that much is for certain." He laughed nervously. "Thank you so much for catching that. I don't know what I was thinking. I think being down there, with the hellfire, and the... demons-- messed with my head. Must have. Boy! Am I making sense? I don't feel like I'm making sense. I need to go take a nap."

On the fourth day of creation, the lie was invented.

"Perhaps that'd be best," Michael agreed.

"We'll fill you in on the trials tomorrow," Gabriel offered. "I left Sandalphon up there. He is rearranging the entries in the Book of Life, and he said he's going to remember all the drama so we can have something of a highlights reel in our morning meeting tomorrow."

"Thought that was for archangels only," Raphael said.

Gabriel waved a dismissively. "Sandalphon's cool. He's my friend!"

Both Michael and Raphael shot him strange looks, but Gabriel didn't seem to notice. Michael turned back to her red-haired brother. "Go. Get some sleep. We'll see you again in the morning," she said.

Raphael nodded, and turned to leave.

"Wait," she said. "Raphael. I'm sorry you had to see that. All the demons, down there."

"Yeah," he said, voice thick. "So am I."

He walked back to the angelic dormitories. He kept on walking, and discovered that the floor above them contained luxury apartment suites, set aside for the archangels. He went into his own, and found that it looked exactly like the rest of Heaven: white, sleek, modern. It was perhaps a bit more indulgent.

It had a balcony, and that suited his purposes perfectly well, actually: he had been planning on merely passing through his rooms before finding an alternate way out.

Instead, he stood on the ledge of the balcony and spread his wings.

He tipped forward, and let himself fall in a controlled dive.

Given that Heaven and Hell exist within a pocket universe created solely to contain them, there is no "outside" for either. To leave the building is to leave the universe. So, when Raphael fell, he promptly blipped out of existence in one universe and was reanimated at a random point in the other, which happened to be in the vicinity of the IC 1101 galaxy.

Pity. He had been hoping to land closer to Earth.

Not that he "landed" at all, really.

He sighed and pushed his wings against vacuum, turning in the direction of Sol.

---------------------------------------------------

There are many ways into Heaven and Hell. When sneaking out of one and into the other, Raphael traveled through a universal wormhole in his bedroom, flew through space, and then scanned the Earth until he found what humans would later call the Grand Canyon. He dove headfirst like a bird of prey, and then flared his wings out and came to a running stop. The canyon walls arched high and towering over him.

He let his feet guide him on instinct, the staff in his hand making an excellent walking stick. Soon enough, he stopped before a large boulder nestled up against the canyon wall.

He gestured with his staff, and the boulder moved out of the way.

The door opened to a room on the second level of Hell, small and cramped and full of currently-empty filing cabinets. It would be spillover storage, a few millennia from now.

Raphael stepped out of the storage room and into a narrow, damp hallway with flickering lights.

A smaller demon froze in his tracks, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"Excuse me," Raphael said. "I don't suppose you could direct me to the Pit?" 

--------------------------------------------------------

Hell seemed to be getting organized. There was a lot less pitiful wailing now, and more of a thrum of angry, vengeful tension in the air. Raphael could practically feel the demons turning bitter around him.

The demon Amy led him into the Pit, and everyone hushed, turning to stare at the glowing white archangel. The hush lasted all of a second, and then the demons were murmuring.

Amy stood awkwardly at his side, clearly wanting to leave and, more importantly, not be seen with him, but unsure if that was permitted.

"You can go," Raphael said. "Unless you'd like me to heal you first. You've got-- a broken leg."

And severe burns and flames for hair and glowing red coals for eyes, but Raphael could already tell he wouldn't be able to heal any of that.

Amy made a squeaking sound and started in on nervous stuttering. He caught sight of other demons striding towards them, and immediately bolted.

Raphael straightened, and looked head on to face Beelzeble. The prince was attended by Dagon on one side and Orobas on the other.

"Your Highness," Raphael said, with a slight bow of his head. "I wasn't expecting you here. Gabriel will have a hard time replacing you."

"He'll never be able to. No one will ever rule as I would have done," ze said. "My name is Beelzebub now. I'm afraid 'Princess of Heaven' is long since behind me. I'm ruling flies now." Ze cast a sardonic look up at the massive insect that formed the top of zir head. "Clever pun. Your sister's a creative one."

Raphael's lips twisted. "Are you in charge down here?"

"Yes. One of seven princes. We're getting a system in place."

"Excellent. In that case, Prince Beelzebub, I request permission to heal your subjects."

Ze folded zir arms. "Am I meant to trust one of the archangels who banished us?"

He rolled his eyes. "You think a lone angel would come down to the bottom depths of Hell to pick a fight? There must be thousands of you!"

"30,000 and counting," the prince said. "But I will not underestimate the arrogance of an archangel. Credit where credit is due. You're a powerful being. If you died in Hell-- no matter what the circumstances-- you'd be a martyr. And it'd give Heaven the perfect excuse to swarm down here and slaughter us."

"I am a healer," he said. "I don't kill, I create. Michael's the warrior."

Beelzebub arched an eyebrow at that, and yes, okay, with zem having worked directly under Gabriel, he could see where ze would have zir doubts.

He sighed. "If you're so worried about it, then post a guard," he said. "Though I want you to know this is fully ridiculous. I'm risking more than you are here."

Ze frowned. "How so?"

"I'm not exactly supposed to be here," he muttered. "Apparently, a proper angel would just leave you to suffer. I'd tell you to keep it quiet, but you have no one to tell, do you?"

"Not quite yet. We'll put a system in place eventually," ze said. "I don't require a guard for you. Your little rebellion is leverage enough."

"I'm here voluntarily," he said. "There's no need for the posturing."

"And there's no need for you to tell me how to protect my own people, either."

--------------------------------------------------

Day 5

Raphael crept back into Heaven an hour before the morning briefing was scheduled, exhausted in a way he had never experienced before. Healing took only a minuscule fraction of his energy, not even noticeable compared to creation. It was strange. Almost like he had been exhausted by merely talking to the demons.

Almost every single one so far had been banished for sinful emotions or thoughts. Some had committed actual evil deeds-- Azazel, of course, spread doubt and dissension. Lucifer committed apostasy, loudly and publicly-- a twofold sin in its potential to stumble others. Raum had managed to make an announcement throughout all of Heaven that the archangels were corrupt and should be attacked on sight. A few had tried to go down fighting, and a few previously devout angels had become enraged at the sight of so many being damned, one after another. There was a rumor-- completely unconfirmed-- that Beelzebub fell while speaking privately with Gabriel, and absolutely no one knew why, or what had been said.

They were all so keen to tell their story, especially to an angel, an archangel, even.

And Raphael listened and the words wore him down. He was exhausted, and it wasn't through any physical exertion.

A few were completely silent throughout the entire procedure, watching him with wary eyes and tense muscles. Somehow, those demons were worse.

He dragged himself into the conference room, feeling frayed and deadened all at once.

Gabriel straightened a scroll and laid it out neatly on the table before him. "Alright," he said. "So! Yesterday we did nothing, and it was a total disaster. As of two hours ago, we had 197,083 angels fallen. Uriel here has been working nonstop. On the plus side, though, now we know where demons come from."

"No one will ever create a demon," Uriel said. "Demons create themselves."

A moment of silence hung in the air.

"Have they stopped falling?" Raphael asked.

"No," Uriel said. "But I'm taking a break. The rest can wait in line."

Gabriel nodded. "As they should. We have actual work today. Thank God, as apparently idle hands are the Devil's tools. Today, we are supposed to create fish and related sea creatures, birds and related flying things, and all manner of insects."

"I'm afraid I'll have to bow out," Uriel said. "I just came for the meeting. To stay informed, you know? I'm still busy damning the souls of the wicked."

Michael and Gabriel nodded sagely. Raphael thought of Lucifer and Penemue and Amy, even Beelzebub.

He was pretty sure none of them had been evil until someone told them they were. He's pretty sure, actually, that Hell is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you tell someone that they are evil incarnate, that they are demonic, for breaking any slightest rule or speaking out of turn, if you punish them maximally for the slightest offenses and send them to Hell for it, broken and mutilated and alone, stripped of everything they had built their identity on... Well, yeah. He thinks you'd get some villains out of that. You'd create a veritable factory of them.

Uriel was wrong.

Demons don't create themselves. Absolute authoritarian control creates demons out of anyone who steps out of line.

He wonders how, between creating the stars and taking a rest day, they got to this point.

"What's it like down there?" Gabriel asked conspiratorially, like it was a secret. He was fishing for gossip, not an official update. "Or, well, up there, I mean?"

"Efficient," Uriel said. "The demons' sins are stated, so the public can be aware. I peer into their soul to search for repentance."

"And then you drop the floor out," Gabriel said. Uriel nodded.

"Have any of them repented?" Raphael asked.

"Not a one," Uriel said. "Some are regretful. They wish it hadn't happened, or they're 'apologetic,' and wish it didn't have to be this way. Some wish they had never had whatever thought got them sent up there. But there's been no true repentance. None have disavowed those thoughts and emotions-- or actions-- and sworn to do everything within their power to prevent future stumblings. It's one thing to wish you hadn't done something. It's another to own that it was wrong, that you personally did wrong, and to solemnly promise never to do it again."

Michael gave a faint smile. "You truly are the angel of wisdom and mercy, Uriel."

Her sister ducked her head. "Thank you."

Sandalphon leaned forward across the conference table towards Gabriel. "Some of them have been crying," he said, a gleam in his eyes. "Great big sobs, snot dripping everywhere, face just soaked in tears and they can't stop."

Gabriel grinned, leaning forward with interest.

"A few of them even begged for mercy," Sandalphon continued. "Saying they'll do anything, anything, for a second chance. Means nothing, of course, if they can't take it back un-feel or un-think whatever shit they fell for."

Gabriel huffed a laugh. "Serves them right."

Michael gave a small, glinting smile. "It's just a shame we can't have all of the angels watching," she said. "Aside from the first few Falls, the numbers have been going down. It's a wonderful lesson for them all to learn, it really shows just what price sin pays, and the public nature of it increases the shame and taboo, but, unfortunately, we need them to get back to work. Well, at least some of them."

"Yes," Gabriel sighed. "God certainly won't wait for us. We need to have the Earth ready for humanity by tomorrow. Speaking of which, we need to discuss angelic hierarchy, duties, structure and all that. I'd put a few people in position tentatively yesterday, but we've since lost most of them. Beelzeble, especially, is... irreplaceable."

"I asked Michael for ten of her most loyal soldiers to be posted as guards on the line," Uriel said. "We've had some instances of demons-to-be attempting to fight their way out and run away, as well as angels in the audience going into fits and rushing the line."

"What? Why?" Gabriel asked.

"They were attempting to free the damned," Uriel said. "I added them to the line, of course. If they're so anxious to be with their fellows, then I certainly won't stand in the way."

Michael snorted.

Gabriel straightened his scroll again and peered down at it. "Yes, well, onto managerial organization. I've come up with a number of different ranks and duties, I would of course welcome any input you guys have to offer. There shall be three Orders of angels. In the highest order, we will have the seraphim, the cherubim, and the thrones. In the middle order, we will have the dominions, the virtues, and the powers. And in the lowest order, we will have the principalities, the archangels-- that's us, and any unsorted minion angels."

Silence.

"Hey Gabriel," Michael said. "Why are we in the lowest order?"

"To show our humility," he said. "This makes us better than all of the other angels, actually, and super virtuous."

Raphael had so many things he wanted to say to that, but none that could sufficiently defeat... that particular logic. It appeared that all the other archangels were thinking along the same lines, too.

And they ended up going along with it, purely because no one wanted to be the one to explain why that was unbelievably stupid.

They spent the next hour talking about duties and domains. Or rather, Gabriel and Michael spent the next hour talking. Michael already had ideas in her head about how she wanted to structure her army and who she wanted at the top, and Gabriel had somehow become Heaven's manager when no one was looking.

Raphael slumped in his chair and picked at his fingernails. Sandalphon was watching the conversation with that eerie expression of blank placidity on his face. It was a lot creepier now that Raphael knew he actually did have thoughts in his head, and they apparently featured the enjoyment of others' suffering.

Uriel, at least, had enough soul to look bored and impatient.

Finally, the meeting wound down, and they all stood from their chairs. Raphael stretched and gave his wings a few good flaps to loosen them.

"Okay," Gabriel said, while Raphael was just five steps from the door, and he cursed internally. "So, just to recap: bugs, birds, and fish. Uriel is casting out the fallen, I am designing birds, Michael is designing fish, and Raphael is taking the insects. Oh! And Haniel and Netzach want to get married. Raphael, I was figuring you could handle that? If you have some spare time today?"

"What?" he asked. "Wait. Um, handle it how?"

"You are the patron angel of marriage," Gabriel said. "As well as an authority figure over both of them. It doesn't get more ordained than that."

"The first marriage in Heaven," Uriel said, smiling. "That sounds lovely. The angels could use something to boost their morale, after yesterday. Oh, we should do it first thing."

"Marriage?" Michael asked. "Among angels? Seems a bit... indulgent, don't you think?"

"It's not technically a sin," Gabriel said. "So long as they remember to always put God and duty first, and never let their love for each other exceed their love for the work. 'Sides," he shrugged. "We need to show that we will reward loyalty. Marrying the souls of two joint administrators sends a great message."

Raphael remembered him saying something earlier, while doling out assignments, about making both Haniel and Netzach the chiefs of the principalities, as they refused to be separated and wouldn't get any work done alone anyway.

Those jobs had been seemingly assigned at random. For some reason, Raphael was now in charge of the virtues, which were apparently meant to be sign-giving and miracle-performing angels. Raphael was going to have to deal with symbolism at some point.

He didn't know shit about symbolism.

Zaphkiel had been assigned as chief of thrones, and Zadkiel was chief of dominions, and Raphael was 100% going to mix them up constantly. Several angels had been sorted into multiple different categories. Camael was apparently leader of the powers despite being one of the dominions. In true fashion, Beelzebub hadn't been replaced. Gabriel had simply increased his own workload and Sandalphon's authority. It was chaos.

He was fairly certain Haniel and Netzach were only being given their position and their wedding as a publicity stunt.

He was also fairly certain that it crossed the line just a little bit too far and qualified as propaganda at this point.

He wasn't, fortunately, stupid enough to say it, however.

"Are you okay?" Uriel asked quietly, as they followed their siblings out the door. "You haven't said much today."

Raphael shrugged. "I don't have anything to say."

-----------------------------------------------------

Heaven-- of course-- had one floor that was just a massively large ballroom. It was ridiculously huge to begin with, and had some sort of miracle on it that allowed it to be large enough to hold all 20 million angels without being overcrowded. It had been designed for galas and holiday parties and, naturally, weddings.

Just because it was large enough to hold everyone's physical manifestation did not, in any sense, mean that everyone had a view. Gabriel had attempted to remedy this by having a construction crew of angels install flatscreens and speakers around the room.

He had sent out a memo to summon all of the angels to the ballroom, and there was a lot of excited/nervous chattering, and then Raphael stood from his seat silently and made his way to the front of the room. The angels quieted as he passed.

He took his place and waited, and all of Heaven watched quietly as the two brides took their walks.

Haniel and Netzach stood before him, facing each other, clutching at each others' hands, fragile, breathless smiles on their faces. Raphael gave them a soft smile of his own.

"Haniel, Joy of God, Grace of God, Leader of the Principalities," he said. "And Netzach, angel of eternity, Leader of the Principalities. All the souls of Heaven have been assembled before you to bear witness to this moment. Today, we will join you two together in holy matrimony. This is the first marriage in all of history, in all of Time. You will set a precedent to be honored throughout the eternity you represent. You are both leaders among angels in more ways than one. Yours is the marriage between equals in all ways. It will be a celebration of love.

"As God's angels, we all have love amongst ourselves. It is expected. It's what's natural. We are creatures sculpted from pure light, built out of love and designed to love every other thing. But the love between those who are married is different. The love of an angel for the universe is static. It is calm, and simple, and pure. The love of a soul for their marriage mate is entirely different. It's boundless. The marriage between two spirit creatures is truly the binding of your souls. Your joy will be her joy, your sadness will be her sadness, and in this way, you will be one flesh. The love of one for their marriage mate is ceaseless, it's defiant against all odds, it's enduring and changeable and everlasting.

"As marriage mates, you must value each other and each other's happiness above all other pursuits. You must continue to offer your devotion and love, no matter what the circumstances, so long as your wife is doing the same. Can you do that? Can you swear to me that you will do that? Netzach?"

"I swear," the angel said, eyes burning with solemnity.

"Good. And Haniel?"

"I swear." She nodded.

"You are the angels of joy and eternity, and I wish you to have exactly that. Blessed be your union."

"Blessed be your union," the assembled crowd echoed.

The two brides fell into each others' arms, embracing giddily. Haniel grinned and pulled back, brushing her wife's curls out of her face and leaning in for a kiss, right there in front of the assembled Host of Heaven. Netzach's eyes widened, and her hands came up to clutch at Haniel and return the gesture desperately.

They flew off into the crowd, hand in hand and beaming, and the entire ballroom was clamoring.

Gabriel sidled up to him out of nowhere. "Well, I have to say," he said. "After all that shit you said, I'm thinking maybe marriage is a sin after all."

He smiled, and gave a bit of a laugh, but his eyes were hard.

Raphael met his gaze head on. "It is the nature of marriage," he said. "It was created as an expression of utmost devotion. She designed it as an outlet for a stronger, more intense form of love. I think of it as one of Her kindest and best creations."

"For humans, maybe," Gabriel said. "I don't think it's really meant for angels, though. Pure devotion? Love more intense than that we have for creation?"

Raphael nodded. "Marriage is beautiful. It's a celebration. I believe the more love we feel, the more angelic we are. To feel a deeper love, and find someone who feels the same and share that devotion with each other-- I think we can achieve nothing better."

"It sounds gross," Gabriel said flatly.

"Not all forms of love are for everybody," Raphael said gently. "But you don't need all forms of love to have a healthy marriage. The physical, obviously, should only be indulged in if all partners feel inclined towards it. But it's not necessary for anything. I think humans will tend to be a bit more... inclined, than most angels are. And platonic love can be just as deep and intense and enduring as romantic love. It's not secondary, not in any way. Just a little bit different."

"No, that's gross too," Gabriel said.

"What?"

"All love," he said. "Even without the... sex, and the kissing, and the romance. Friendship is bad too."

"Excuse me?"

"Servants of God should be devoted to Her and solely Her," he said. "We are to do Her work and fulfill Her will and that's it. Frankly, it sounds sinful to show favoritism like that."

"Sinful?" he asked. "Love is not sinful!"

"Isn't it, though?" he asked. "We should give love equally to all Her creations. We are meant to protect and serve. What if one day you had to choose between protecting your wife and following the Great Plan? If you felt love or something, you might make the wrong decision."

Raphael frowned.

"Even a lesser emotional tie-- say, the betrayal of a friend-- could cause people to stumble in their faith. People should never love anything so much as they love God, even in a completely conflict-free scenario. Elevating a fallible being up to a parallel status with God is, in itself, a sin. Worse, what if an angel grew to love their spouse more than they loved God? They'd Fall for their idolatry. I just-- I feel like it's a slippery slope. One day you're deciding that you like a particular angel more than the others, and the next you're in Hell, worshiping the Devil."

"Uh-huh," Raphael said slowly. "Yeah. Gotta say. Don't agree with you there."

Gabriel shrugged. "We'll table it as a debate for tomorrow's meeting."

"A debate over what?" he asked. "We can't possibly label love as a sin. We're creatures of love, Gabriel, or have you forgotten that?"

His gaze hardened. "There are different forms of love," he said, echoing his brother's words. "I think we need to sit down and delineate which manifestations of love are holy and which are a perversion. The sort of love that someone could Fall for-- that's dangerous. Marriage is a distraction at best and an outright sin at worst. I'm sorry, Raphael, but we might have to ban it."

"And what would happen to Netzach and Haniel?"

He shrugged. "Maybe we'd have it annulled? I don't know. Again, Raphael, we'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

He gave a weak smile, and disappeared off into the crowd.

Raphael remained rooted to the spot.

The angels were talking and laughing and smiling. Haniel and Netzach's halos were the brightest in the room, their eyes pure white and their whole beings emitting a bit of a glow. It happens, they had found. With particularly strong and holy emotions. Happiness and righteous anger and protectiveness and justice and zeal.

Love.

He felt a sickening dread sink into the bottom of his stomach.

----------------------------------------------------

He had volunteered to design the insects.

His siblings had been surprised. Then Michael had cooed about how virtuous and selfless that was of him, to be willing to design such lowly and disgusting creatures. A pitiful assignment. None of the others had wanted it.

They all split up as soon as they reached Earth.

Raphael thought of the demons.

They had all been transformed into a beast of the Earth as they fell. Usually something unclean. Something lowly and small that would crawl through mud and dirt for its whole existence. The animals hadn't been created yet, but they would be.

It took time and good deal of effort for the demons to regain humanoid shapes. Their wings had burned during the Fall, feathers turning to ash and flying away. Retransforming made them grow back, but without the holy light of their Grace, the feathers appeared black.

Black as sin, they were saying.

Their humanoid forms tended to keep their animalistic form as well. Raphael didn't know if that was a choice or something they couldn't help. Maybe it was a reminder, or a safeguard, or something symbolic about duality or the truth of their nature or some other garbage. It didn't matter.

Raphael thought of demons, and he created the insects.

Flies, able to cling to anything and impervious to gravity. Ants, impossibly strong for their size and functioning as an army. Bees, he liked bees, he thought he really outdid himself on bees. Locusts and emerald ash borers and maggots and spiders. Each would serve their purpose and fulfill a necessary role. They would maintain and complete the Earth.

Except mosquitoes. He was feeling a bit tetchy when he made mosquitoes.

He created water skimmers and cockroaches and dung beetles. He made butterflies and moths and parasites. There were fleas and ticks and lice. Ladybugs and gnats. Lightning bugs and horse flies. Wasps and hornets and all sorts of little pollinators to keep the plants alive.

He made disgusting, vile little creatures. The humans would hate and fear them. They would spend so much time and money trying to kill them and keep them away. They weren't exactly wrong to do so. A lot of them carried diseases and bit or destroyed crops.

But the Earth still needed them anyway.

So Raphael created them, and he thought that if no one else would love pests, then he would do it himself.

-----------------------------------------------------

"So is this how it's going to be?" Beelzebub asked. "In Heaven by day, in Hell by night? You're risking quite a scandal there, Archangel."

"I'm doing the bare minimum," he said. "The healer who has the power to ease someone's suffering and denies them for any reason deserves to be damned."

"And if they damn you anyway?"

"Well then, you'll have a lot of demons with untreated festering wounds then, won't you?" he snapped. "You have a lot more to lose than I do."

Ze folded zir arms. "Most consider their own life to be of the highest importance."

"Not very angelic of them. Probably why you're all demons," he said. "You seem very suspicious of someone who is only here to help out."

"How would you feel if I went up to Heaven and asked to touch all the angels?" ze asked. "I know what you archangels are really like, Raphael. I wasn't magically transported up to the execution level. Gabriel struck me across the face, clapped one hand over my mouth and the other around my wrists, and dragged me there."

"I am not my brother," he said firmly. "His views are not my own. I have told you before that I am against violence, and I mean it. You can trust me to heal."

They stood there for a while, saying nothing and glaring daggers at each other.

"You're a moron," Beelzebub said finally. "You shouldn't be down here; this'll be the death of you. But since you are, Murmur has a broken wing."

"Murmur?"

"Matthias."

"Ah."

------------------------------------------------------

Day 6

"Alright, we have a very full day today," Gabriel said. "Lots of work, and also lots of logistics to discuss. On the agenda, we have: creation of land animals, subcategories wild and domestic; cultivation of the Garden of Eden-- with very particular instructions, mind you; God is going to be creating Man and Woman; discussion on the sinfulness of marriage/love; and, last but not least, I think you guys should get assistants too. Very useful, makes you seem important, and they could double as bodyguards. Discuss?"

"Sounds cool," Uriel said. "I'm all for it. Like an artist's apprentice. If anything should happen to me, I want someone I trained and can trust to step up and fill my role."

Michael nodded. "I've been meaning to choose a second. I have an elite group of warriors, but there's been no particular standout among them."

"I could create one especially," Uriel suggested.

Gabriel snapped his fingers. "Yes! That! Love that. And Raphael could use a, uh..."

"Nurse," he supplied. "Doctors have nurses."

"Great." He smiled. "Well, now that that's settled. I think deep interpersonal connections are inherently sinful and we should ban marriage."

Uriel leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. "Explain."

"Godly love is meant to be equal, without favoritism. Allegiances to anything other than God will only serve to divide us. We should be friends and brothers to all of creation. This idea of picking and choosing one or a few people to love more than the rest, it's... It's not right. It leads down the path of sin. Angels are meant to love God and The Work. Take Netzach and Haniel, for example. What if Netzach Falls? Would Haniel follow her down? Their friends will talk about it. What if they look back and realize that they could have seen it coming? That they heard her spouting radical ideas wrapped up in a mask of theocracy? What if they sympathize with her, or doubt or decision to damn her? The whole Host could end up full of divisions and doubt, because a few people got married and had friends and oh, they weren't really that bad, were they?"

"Those who doubt our leadership are doubting the authority of God," Uriel said, frowning. "Anyone who does that deserves to Fall themselves. We've been very clear. The faithful and discreet slave is chosen and directed by God. Our leadership and decisions cannot be questioned by anyone of true faith and morality."

Michael nodded. "Of course. But I think Gabriel has a point too. It's not just about sympathy for demons. Obviously, Falling is a loving arrangement. It keeps the Host clean and morally pure, free from reproach. Anyone could look at us and see that we are truly God's people and holy. We protect the real angels by removing dangerous sinners from their midst. If the demons didn't Fall, they would tell lies and alternative views. They'd corrupt good people's minds and hearts, with blatant propaganda."

Uriel nodded.

"So it's not just about sympathy for demons," Michael continued. "Because making them Fall is sympathetic. It is an expression of kindness. Those who doubt that in any way clearly don't have the right heart condition and need to correct their thinking. But about marriage itself... Yeah, Gabriel's right. Outright ties and allegiances like that will only bring us trouble. It could easily lead to idol worship. People may give their spouse love equal or greater than what they hold for God."

"Still. Banning marriage altogether seems a bit harsh," Uriel said.

"Ye-Yes! Thank you!" Raphael said. "This is absurd! Just because it could cause some angels to sin doesn't mean we should get rid of it for everybody! If somebody falls into a trap of vice, then that's their own problem."

"If your right hand is making you stumble, cut it off and throw it away from you," Michael said. "For it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to land in Gehenna. Sacrifices must be made. If removing marriage is inconvenient, then so be it. If it lowers your enjoyment of life, if it impedes certain things, if it bars certain activities altogether, then oh well. It isn't necessary for life. It's a potential stumbling block, a large one, and we must do whatever we have to to remain free of sin."

Uriel nodded, and that was it, the matter decided.

Sandalphon made a note down in his scroll. Raphael's thoughts were swirling around in his head like a whirlpool. He felt... bad. Confused. This couldn't be right.

"Alright, now onto creative matters," Gabriel said. "Wild animals, domestic animals, and a Garden."

"I'll take the Garden," Raphael said quickly. "I did insects yesterday."

No one protested.

"I still have demons to damn," Uriel sighed. Michael patted her on the hand.

"How many have we lost?" Gabriel asked.

"About six million," Uriel said.

"What?!"

She nodded. "Six million. It's slowing down though. It'll stop soon."

"That's horrible," Raphael said. "So many of them?"

"It's good, actually," Michael said. "Not that they're sinning, obviously, but that they're being removed. We're separating the wheat from the weeds, the sheep from the goats."

"Yes," Gabriel said. "Yes, we'll definitely start telling the angels that Falling is loving. Merciful, even. Anyway. Michael, you take wild animals, I'll take domestic?"

She nodded.

"Great," Gabriel smiled. "Let's get to work."

--------------------------------------------

The Garden did have horribly specific instructions for its creation.

Eden was meant to be towards the east a bit, and to have a river flowing inside it to water the Garden. Then the river was supposed to split into four rivers: the Pishon (which encircles the land of Havilah), the Gihon (which encircles the land of Cush), the Tigris (to be east of Assyria), and the Euphrates.

So Raphael moved a bunch of dirt around and called forth rain from the sky and created some rivers. He traced them all back to their root source, and found a lovely spot of land in the east. He decided it would be Eden.

After seeing some of the larger predators that Michael was creating, he also decided the Garden would have a big ass wall. Just absolutely gigantic. With spikes. Tall enough to tower over fully grown specimens of the finest, most perfect trees in creation. Thick enough to withstand any attack, by any animal or any weapon humans could possibly think up in the next few millennia. It was unassailable, truly.

With a gate, of course, it wasn't a cage. And angels to guard the gate.

The garden was meant to exist outside the realm of botanical possibilities. All bets were off on it. It was to contain every seed-bearing plant, every tree with seed-bearing fruit, every tree that was pleasing to look at and good for food, plus two others in the very middle, but Raphael wasn't meant to create those ones.

He made the Garden lush and beautiful and full of good things. They would have fruit and vegetables and herbs and spices, and they could do whatever they wanted with them.

If the humans were to be created in God's image, then surely they would be highly creative and intelligent. Raphael gave them every resource they could ever need for that.

And then it was done.

They all Knew. It went beyond the way the archangels were aware of each other. This was for everybody, all creations in the universe. The trees stilled their branches, but their leaves shivered with anticipation. The grass stood upright, at attention. All the nearby animals wandered to the Garden's walls. They sat patiently outside, or prowled around, or pawed at the stonework. Every angel in Heaven flew down to Earth and stood above the garden, around its walls, forming a glowing, holy halo. All the demons in Hell stopped what they were doing and saw it from a distance.

The archangels dropped with whooshes of air. They stood in a circle in the center of the Garden, four points on a compass.

God was there. It was impossible to say how, or where specifically. It was just this sense of a Presence.

Two trees began growing.

They finished, towering, the largest in the Garden.

Let us make man in our image, according to our likeness, and let them have in subjection the fish of the sea and the flying creatures of the heavens and the domestic animals and all the earth and every creeping animal that is moving on the Earth.

The archangels raised up their hands, as if on instinct. Dust began swirling up out of the ground. It moved in circles, tighter and tighter, condensing into a spinning tunnel between the trees. They moved the dust faster, and faster, and like a forming star, it settled into the shape of a man.

It was empty. They had created a body, but there was nothing inside it. Adam was not like them. He was made of dust, not light, and when he started out, he was empty on the inside, entirely lifeless.

A wind blew down from up above. Adam's skin grew brighter, more vibrant and reddish, and he sucked in a breath and opened his eyes.

He looked around, bewildered.

From every tree of the Garden you may eat to satisfaction. But as for the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Bad, you must not eat from it, for in the day you eat from it you will certainly die.

"Oh, well that's bullshit," Raphael said.

There was a moment of stark, crisp silence, in which every sentient being in the universe turned their attention towards him.

He felt his face flame.

There was really only one option. He kept talking.

"That's bullshit," he repeated, tilting his chin up. "Why can't they have that knowledge? Why is that barred from humans? Without knowing good and bad, without their own sense of morality, all you have is blind faith and obedience. Forbidding access to information is-- is-- mind control! You can't do that!"

He stood his ground. He glared up at the sky. He raised his staff to gesture with."Why can't they know?" he asked. "Why do you fear the spread of information? Do you think if they had all the facts, they wouldn't worship you? Do you think, if you didn't rig the game and you went about things honestly, anyone would?"

He leaned forward, wings arched upward for a fight. "Do you deserve it?"

He was standing in the top floor of Heaven, wings bound behind him in chains glowing blue. Matching fetters bound his feet and cuffed his wrists behind him.

His siblings stood before him, faces grave. The room was empty, otherwise.

"What happened to the line?" he asked. "The audience, the spectacle? Thought you were rather keen on that."

"Apostasy," Uriel said. "Is what Azazel and Lucifer went down for. Some others, too. It's one of the worst sins. An unforgivable one."

"And?"

"And we won't give you a platform to continue to spread your lies from."

"Where did I lie?" he asked. "Not one of those statements was a lie."

"You accused God of mind-control," Gabriel said incredulously. "You challenged Her inherent right to rule. Her justice and wisdom."

"And I didn't lie," he said. "All I did was ask questions."

"We aren't here to discuss semantics," Uriel said. "We aren't here to discuss anything, really. You're an apostate. You speak poison into the minds of others. You spread mistrust and propaganda and lies. You twist words to sound reasonable and logical, when really they're anything but. You're a silver-tongued snake. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Listening to you at all is so dangerous it could be considered a sin in itself."

"Shame, then, that the whole universe just heard. Few million more demons for you, yeah?"

"A few hours ago you called that horrible," Michael said.

"Heaven needs to be rebelled against," he said. "And I'd have done it earlier, but I had to be sure."

He hadn't intended to rebel even as he started speaking out there. But he had thought about it. He had questioned, he had doubted, he had wondered and imagined what would happen.

It had felt just a little bit inevitable, but no, he hadn't intended to rebel, not in a million years.

"He has a point, though," Gabriel said, speaking to his sisters. "Everyone heard him. Everyone. We-- He was an archangel. It was public. People will talk. It doesn't look good."

"That's true," Uriel said. "I can feel it. There's 902,784 souls awaiting judgment, and rising. It was half that before."

"Sympathy for the devil," Michael said. "Like I was saying earlier, when we were talking about marriage. Just the idea of people knowing a sinner is one of the biggest stumbling blocks we will ever encounter. If we want to keep the Host clean, we need to wipe them out entirely."

"Agreed," Uriel said.

"We're already doing that. That's what damning is, and it isn't enough," Gabriel said. "If only there were a way we could make it so they had never met any demons in the first place. Like if we could've seen their future sins and sorted them preemptively."

"We couldn't do that though, and the time has passed," Michael said. "We can't rewrite history."

"No," Uriel said. "But we can rewrite memories."

"What?" Gabriel asked.

"No," Raphael said. "No, don't do this."

"We can weave thoughts like threads in fabric," Uriel said, ignoring him completely. "Divine inspiration. To give humans ideas and encourage them in the right direction. The demons do it too, with their temptations."

"What you're talking about is a lot more than a little nudge," Gabriel said. "A single implanted thought in an unguarded mind is-- well, it's easy. But a memory is a whole nest of thoughts. And emotions. It's like a great big ball of string all tied together."

"We're archangels. We can handle it," Uriel said. "And we're not erasing the demons' existence entirely. Just any personal memories of them."

Michael smirked. "Guess your little stunt doesn't mean much now, Raphael. You were willing to Fall for it, and no one will even remember," she said. "But you'll still Fall."

"Right," Uriel said. "Down to business then. Archangel Raphael, you have committed the sins of blasphemy, heresy, and-- most damning of all-- apostasy. Do you have anything you would like to say for yourself?"

"Yes." He straightened. "I stand by my words. This is wrong, you have created a corrupt system, and I'm ashamed to have been a part of it. This isn't right, and I will not bow before an unjust god. You have created a system without choice or free will at all. Your options are to serve God or to be--"

"That's more than enough," Uriel said. "Your confession has been noted."

She snapped her fingers, and the floor dropped out beneath him.

---------------------------------------------------

Falling was hell.

Falling was worse than Hell.

Surely Hell couldn't possibly be worse than this, could it?

-------------------------------------------------

It felt like eternity.

Raphael had no clue how long he was there. He remembered the demons, the other demons, telling him that Falling took years, decades, centuries, millennia, eons.

He had thought, surely, they were exaggerating.

They hadn't been, though. They hadn't been, and now he was feeling it. He felt every excruciating hour tick by one by one in a slow drop of years, and for the first time ever, Raphael felt old.

Surely too much time had passed. By the time he hit the ground, the world will have ended. He'll have to make a new one. He's an archangel-- or was, at least-- he's one of very few beings in existence capable of doing that. He would if he had to.

But oh, he had just made the Earth, and it had been so perfect.

Not 'just.' Years ago. Thousands, millions of years ago. Had to be.

Had to be.

-----------------------------------------------------

He had plenty of time to think, as he was Falling.

He supposed that was rather the point. Like a human time-out for unruly children. Sit quietly, alone, and think about what you did wrong.

Raphael didn't think about that, though, he was thinking about the future.

Would the demons remember him? Would the archangels include them in their memory wipe? They had no reason to, really, who cares what demons think of one of their own? It's not like any angels would be listening to what any of them had to say. That would be a slippery slope, as Gabriel would say. Or an outright sin, maybe.

Turn away from temptation. Keep your eye on those who cause divisions and occasions for stumbling contrary to the teaching that you have learned, and avoid them. Look out: perhaps there may be someone who will carry you off as his prey through the philosophy and empty deception according to the tradition of men, according to the elementary things of the world and not according to Christ. If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, never receive him into your home or say a greeting to him; for he that says a greeting to him is a sharer in his wicked works.

If any man teaches other doctrine and does not assent to healthful words, those of our Lord Jesus Christ, nor to the teaching that accords with godly devotion, he is puffed up with pride, not understanding anything, but being mentally diseased over questionings and debates about words. From these things spring envy, strife, abusive speeches, wicked suspicions.

Ideas can be very dangerous things. Ideas not of or for God are too sinful for a faithful person to permit themselves to listen to. It's why silencing him was necessary, why the archangels came up with the memory wipe, why so many demons are to be dedicated teachers and inventors.

Murmur will teach humanity philosophy. Aamon will reconcile enemies, and know of the past and the future, and procure love for those seeking it. Orobas is unfailingly honest, will uphold deals with humans in good faith and tell them the truth of any matter they could ask about. Penemue would teach the humans to write, teach them of bitterness and sweetness, and be credited with spreading sin across the world because of it. Azazel would teach humans to make weapons and armor, he would invent cosmetics, he would reveal the secrets of witchcraft to them so they may use it themselves. Amy would teach astronomy and liberal arts, he would give familiars, reveal treasures, and incite positive reactions from human rulers. Barbas would reveal secrets, teach medicine, cause and cure diseases. Belphegor would inspire humans to ingenious inventions that would make them massively wealthy. Naberius would make humans cunning in all arts and sciences-- rhetoric especially-- and restore them their lost honors and dignities.

And so many, so many others.

Just about every demon Raphael had met so far was a teacher at heart. Just about every single one of them would inspire humanity to create. Oh, there were exceptions, of course. Some of them have embraced bitterness fully, have decided to scorn the humans and cause them only trouble. The Evil Trinity-- Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Astaroth-- are resoundingly evil, and the other four princes aren't far behind.

It is easy to say the demons are all evil liars committed only to spreading destruction if you've never gone down to Hell and talked with a fair share of demons.

There is no such thing as neutral information. It is either helpful or it is harmful, in Heaven's eyes. And demons are willing to spread it indiscriminately-- hurtful things, dangerous things, deceitful things, truths that can be turned into weapons and used to fight back, little white lies when there is no such thing.

Demons will talk, will say anything and everything, will talk for the sake of speaking, and angels will stand silent, carrying out untold orders from Up High, parroting back only what is sanctioned, and in the prescribed way.

Raphael had a lot of time to think.

For one, he realized his name didn't fit. God Heals, what bullshit. God has not healed a single thing. She may have put life in Adam and spun the Earth on its axis, but the bulk of creation was delegated to others. And Raphael could see it, has always been able to see it, but never thought about it. God doesn't heal. God will never heal. She will give angels and saints the ability to do it for her, but never once in all of history will there be an instance of God personally healing someone.

God does not heal, and he is not Raphael.

He gets it now, why some of the demons have been changing their holy names once they get down there. It feels like a lie branded onto him. And even with the meaning aside, he is not that person. God doesn't get to decide that. She doesn't get to stick holiness on him, have him be labeled entirely by it, and decide that's his identity. No. No, he will choose his own identity, and he will be his own person, not just one of God's.

And for the first time in his life, he was alone in his own head. He could not sense his siblings. Even when he focused, he had no sense of their general mood or occupation or where they were in relation to him. His familial bonds had been completely cut off, severed with a decisive blade.

It was a clear message. He hadn't been betrayed by his brother and sisters. He had been the betrayer, he had been the one to turn his back on them and what they stood for, and as of this moment, he no longer had a brother and sisters.

Sacrifices must be made. Have no dealings with apostates.

The words of a snake are poison.

-------------------------------------------------------

He hadn't been so clear-headed at first.

He had thrashed and twisted around. His wings were bound in chain. Heavy steel, forged in the heart of stars, glowing blue with holiness. He had nearly pulled every muscle in his wings and back straining against them.

It was a panic response, obviously. His wings were not strong enough to snap heavenly steel. Pushing against it wasn't going to do anything. But he was falling, falling, falling, and the instinct to unfurl his wings and stop it, soar to safety instead-- it was near insurmountable. He itched to fly. Winged creatures were never meant to fall with so little control over it.

They had started to burn. The chains, that is.

It was a slow, creeping heat, the kind you didn't notice at first. It was sensation, awareness of an object that contained the heat of your body. It was a bit warm. A tingling itch. It was clearly heated, nearly hot, but only uncomfortable for being in prolonged contact.

Then it wasn't.

The flesh of his wings reddened and burned and blistered first, and it smelled like cooked meat. His struggling began anew, and kicked up a notch.

Feathers touching the chains smoldered. They gave off streams of smoke, turning black and curling in on themselves, then turning to white ash and flying away as dust, gone.

And the heat spread, and his whole wings were on fire.

Raphael struggled and twisted and tried to pull away from his own body. The fire burned the length of his wings and kept eating. It caught his hair, his robe. He was covered in it, his skin wasn't holding up. He was going to melt.

He closed his eyes against the heat. They were watering uncontrollably, nature's last-ditch effort to preserve them, but the tears were evaporating on his cheeks.

He imagined something without wings or hair or robes to burn. Something with no soft flesh to exploit. Something that could not be bound by chains at all, something that could slip right out of them with ease.

He fell away from the fire, and left it behind up above him.

His eyes were open now. There was nothing to see, of course. Only infinite blackness flying by too fast to process. But he imagined that at least he would get a bit of warning, some time to brace himself, before he fell into the next fire.

----------------------------------------------------

It didn't work out like that.

He never saw it coming. No light, no flames, no plummeting through the great big hole in Hell's ceiling into the main cavern of the bottom level. There was just an increasing sense of red, getting redder and brighter as he Fell, and then suddenly he was in hellfire.

He slammed down into the bottom of the Pit, pain reverberating through him.

It was a shallow pool. Less than one foot of boiling sulfur. The flames resulting from it towered about thirty feet high.

He couldn't see anything but the bright scarlet red, and that fit, he supposed. Not much worth seeing in a pit of boiling sulfur. It was a shame this form wasn't capable of closing its eyes, though.

Flames crackled and snapped loudly. Bubbles popped and roiled on the surface, muted above him. He stretched upward, clearing his head of the fluid, and the landscape of sounds changed.

Something was sloshing. Towards him.

Beelzebub, he thought, grateful he still had the ability to recognize a soul even before he could see the redder-on-red form of the prince through the flames. And that was the last thought he had before he was yanked up by the throat and marched back through the Pit.

They came to the embankment and cleared the hellfire. Raphael still couldn't see anything, no doubt his eyes having trouble adjusting from being in literal flame to darkness. Everything was black, with a faint hue of red, and the demons themselves were ghostly, hazy figures of pure.

A neutral red. The standard version of red. Dimmer than the hellfire for sure, but by no means dark in itself, unlike the room. Some of them were brighter or darker than others, curiously, and some were veering a bit towards purple.

Beelzebub lifted his snake form up high, and he wriggled instinctively. "And here we have a former Archangel," ze said. "You all saw that display in the Garden. One of you dukes will be getting this thing added to your legion. Who wants him?"

Red shapes crept closer, and it was suddenly very very bad that Raphael could not see their faces.

--------------------------------------------------

Four hours later, it was finally over. Beelzebub tossed him to Duke Hastur, who did not precisely catch him. They both ended up flailing rather ungracefully for an embarrassing amount of time before sorting themselves out.

"Crawly little thing, aren't you?" Hastur said. "Listen, fuckface, I know you're new here, so let me just tell you something. You may have been a big man up top, but that means nothing down here. If it weren't for your big speech and the healing you did, we probably would have hunted you for sport. Like a cop in prison. The only reason I wanted you for my legion is 'cause I figure you still have all your archangel powers, and it's a feather in my wing to have a former top gun under my name. But it's my name. Got it? You work for me. You were a big man up there, not down here. If I even think you're getting any funny ideas, I will put you down and feed you to the hellhounds. Understand?"

"Perfectly," he hissed.

"Good," he said. "It's the dawn of a new day, crawly. Why don't you get up there and make some trouble?"

--------------------------------------------------

Day 7

Not-Raphael (no new name yet) manifested physically within the depths of the Earth and then burst forth out of them, inside the walls of the Garden, in the form of the largest snake the world would ever see.

Was it over the top? Yes. Was it highly noticeable? Also yes. Was it a poorly concealed defense mechanism after being made to feel small and helpless?

He slithered through the Garden.

It was empty, now. Only a single human, some plants, and decidedly friendly and safe animals. The demons had turned their attention away. The angels had gone back to Heaven and work. God's presence was gone.

Not-Raphael saw only black, with faint, barely-there blue forming vague shapes that must be the plants. The whole garden smelled holy, and the air was filled with a soft thrum of energy because of it. Evil manifests as energy-in-the-air too, but a decidedly different feeling energy, if that made sense.

The holiness prickled on his scales uncomfortably, made him feel tense and on edge. Jittery.

He wandered around aimlessly until he found a soul.

The soul was a yellow, wobbly-ish figure, indistinct and made of light, as everything he could see now was. The only reason he knew it was a human and not a small, odd plant was its color and movement.

This soul was different than the soul of Adam. It was she who was called Woman, but someday she would be called Eve, the Living One, as mother of all life.

(Adam would never truly receive a name. Everyone had been calling him Man, and eventually the word that meant 'man' would be considered a good enough name in itself, and many humans would be named Adam after him. They were, respectively, Man and Woman, and being the first of their kinds, that was generally good enough. Adam had then gotten sappy and sentimental later in the day, and invented a name for his wife. But that hadn't happened yet.)

He made himself a fair bit smaller before approaching, and twirled up a tree and into its branches, dropping his neck down.

Eve glanced up, startled, and smiled. "Hello," she said.

"Hello," the snake replied.

Eve had never been so close to another animal before. She had been born yesterday. She didn't know they couldn't talk.

"Did God really say you must not eat from every tree of the Garden?" he asked.

She nodded, innocent and sincere. "We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the Garden. But God has said about the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the Garden: 'You must not eat from it, no, you must not touch it; otherwise you will die."

"Ohhhh," he scoffed. "The tree isn't going to kill you, you know. The fruit isn't poison. Perfectly harmless, in itself. God just told you that 'cuz She knows that in the very day you eat from it, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good from bad."

----------------------------------------------------

They had never seen God curse anyone before. No one had. Presumably, it had never been done.

But now, God let loose curses.

To the snake:

Because you have done this, you are the cursed one out of all the domestic animals and out of all the wild animals of the field. On your belly you will go, and you will eat dust all the days of your life. 

To the demons:

And I will put enmity between you and the woman and between your offspring and her offspring. He will crush your head, and will strike him in the heel.

To women:

I will greatly increase the pain of your pregnancy; in pain you will give birth to children, and your longing will be for your husband, and he will dominate you.

To men:

Because you listened to your wife's voice and ate from the tree concerning which I gave you this command, 'You must not eat from it,' cursed is the ground on your account. In pain you will eat its produce all the days of your life. It will grow thorns and thistles for you, and you must eat the vegetation of the field. In the sweat of your face you will eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken. For dust you are and to dust you will return.

And then Eve was given her name, and God gave the first humans some better clothes, long garments made from animal skins, thick and warm. And She said, to the angels:

Here the man has become like one of us in knowing good and bad. Now in order that he may not put his hand out and take fruit also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever--

And suddenly the humans weren't in the Garden anymore.

------------------------------------------------------

If he had known this would happen, he wouldn't have built the wall.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. They deserved a sporting chance, at least, to get at the fruit. And what were they supposed to eat out here? Where were they supposed to take shelter? Humans will die within days-- not weeks, days-- without water, thanks to Adam's curse, and they're in the middle of a desert. Plus, they don't know anything about survival. Or anything at all, really, except for right from wrong.

Immortality lay at the center of the Garden. It hung from a tree. It would rot off the branches, or be eaten up by birds or bugs before it went back into the earth, and eventually, God would let the tree itself die. Life. Health. Freedom from death.

He thought about the angels guarding it. Two cherubim at the tree itself, two more at the gate, which is in the east, every last one of them armed with a flaming sword and experts in how to use it.

He wondered how they were able to live with themselves.

He wondered if he was going to be able to live with himself.

-----------------------------------------------------

There was an angel on the wall.

Mind, he couldn't see the wall. Still blind as a bat, apparently, except for whatever weird shit was going on with the red and the blue and the strangely yellow humans. He had accepted it as further divine punishment at this point. Little bit of extra, for the ex-archangel who fell so far.

It was ironic, actually, and he was going to try to think of it as funny. Raphael, patron angel of the blind, who was blind before and gained true perspective at the cost of his eyesight.

See? It was funny. Definitely funny, and the poor attempt at irony was horribly tacky on God's part, and Not-Raphael was going to laugh about it any day now. In a few short years, at a maximum.

He was sure God was laughing, at least.

The hazy steaks of red and blue light did not appear to exist outside of the Garden or Hell (he half-heartedly wondered how he would perceive Heaven). It was just black. Plain black. He could tell where the Garden was from the outside only because he could "see" beams of blue light shooting up from about midway in the sky out of nowhere.

But that didn't matter now, because he was on the inside, slithering up the wall towards a shining blue figure with big, obvious wing shapes. Must be an angel. Had to be. All the demons had been red, and Eden was blue, so surely angels were blue too?

He turned back into a humanoid form once safely on top of the wall. "Well that went down like a lead balloon."

"Sorry, what was that?"

He turned to face the angel. Better for hearing. More polite. "I said, 'Well that went down like a lead balloon.'"

And shit, shit, he saw the angel's soul, just like always.

Aziraphale. Aziraphale, really? Bit on-the-nose there with the name there, Uriel.

He had been made the morning of the sixth day as a helpmeet to an archangel who turned traitor that afternoon. Now an unsorted cherub with no specific projects to be doing, he had been put on guard duty when Heaven needed spare angels. No one knew quite what to do with him.

So much for taking over Raphael's job. Looks like that had been nixed almost immediately.

But then, he had no training, and that wasn't even his patronage, his patronage was--

He needed to stop soul-staring.

"Yes, yes, it did, rather," Aziraphale said.

"Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offence and everything," he said. "I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway."

"Well, it must be bad--" The angel paused, clearly expectant.

Oh shit.

He thought fast. "Crawly."

"--Crawly. Otherwise, you wouldn't have tempted them into it."

Speaking of tempting.

He started talking, asking his questions, but the angel didn't take the bait. Best not to speculate, copping out by refusing to even think about it, smart. Still, though, even just listening was on the wrong side of borderline. A proper angel would have smote him on the spot.

He had not crawled up the wall right next to a trained, armed cherub with a God-given weapon with the intention of finding an improper angel.

Still, though. This was interesting, at least.

Hey, speaking of which: the blurry, indistinct outline of the angel seemed to be just that-- only the angel.

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?" he asked.

"Uh--"

"You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?"

"Uhhh..."

"Lost it already, have you?" Was that it? Was that how angels stayed loyal? Pointedly not thinking, general incompetence, and not considering the consequences of their own actions?

Was Sandalphon a role model?

"...Gave it away."

"You what?!"

"I gave it away!" Aziraphale said, loudly, with no fear of God hearing. "There are vicious animals! It's going to be cold out there. And she's expecting already. And I said, 'Here you go. Flaming sword. Don't thank me. And don't let the sun go down on you here.' I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing."

Crawly's chest and his heart in particular felt very, extremely strange.

This was selflessness. This was fearless kindness. Doing the right thing even when it goes against the theocratic law. Even when there could be dire personal consequences for doing so. Aziraphale had the ability to ease people's suffering and give aid to the vulnerable, and so he did, without a second thought, without hesitation.

This was what angels were supposed to be like. In that moment, Crawly was convinced that Aziraphale was the truest, best angel there ever was. The only good one in Heaven.

"Oh, you're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing."

They kept talking, and Crawly had a niggling desire to know what Aziraphale's form looked like, what his face was doing, but he repressed. Best start getting over his issues about that as soon as possible. He was going to have an eternity to live with that, he would rather not be miserable for all of it.

He was going to miss his eyesight every now and then, for sure. It would take some time and a good bit of effort. But this was his life, this was who he was, this was how things were going to be. And he was going to be content if he had to fight for millennia to get there.

For the first time in his life, he felt true hope.

Rain started sprinkling down. Without even deciding to do so, he shuffled closer to his angel. Aziraphale extended a wing up above his head, protecting him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was.

Maybe kindness could become the default. Maybe humanity could become something beautiful out of this, knowing what was right and working to do it. If people like Aziraphale could make kindness so simple, so effortless, then the rest of the universe could-- should-- follow their example.

It would take some time. Some effort.

But Crawly thought they really could.

[sylwritesstuff]

039) Protect (1201)

Part of the Light to Dancing 100x100 List.

Rating: M (talk of killing and such)

—-

Spain

1481

He hadn't heard from Aziraphale in some time. It happened, of course, for two beings who were virtually always busy. If one head office wasn't issuing orders, the other was. Or, unfortunately, they both were. Their Arrangement had become a very good excuse for Crowley to pop in on him more and more, but it had taken thousands of years. 

It would probably take thousands more at this rate. 

Ah, well. He was a demon, after all. He knew how to keep himself entertained and did take great pleasure in moving around and amongst humans. They were almost a full century away from the dreaded fourteenth and nothing could be better. 

Until he felt it.

A stirring in the air that whispered that something dangerous was about to happen. It was normally exciting, but not when it felt like this. Aziraphale was in some sort of trouble again. Someone had threatened his life. 

He vanished, quick as a whip, and found himself in a dungeon. Damp, dark, reeking of human filth and sorrow. There was one spot of hope in the whole place, brightening up the dingy space, and Crowley sauntered towards it. Hope was filling another cell, though it was softer, and it died the moment Crowley made his presence known. 

So did the soft Spanish whispering, the angel rising. "Oh, Crowley, why am I not surprised to see a demon here?" Then he paused and seemed to think better of it. "Actually, why are you here?" 

He shrugged loftily, lifting a hand and touching the crude lock on the angel's cell. It fell away. "I was in the area. How'd you get yourself locked in a jail cell?" 

"It's complicated."

"Try me."

"Well, I..." There was jingling, soft whispers, and Crowley whisked Aziraphale to the shadows so they could hide. 

The jailors spoke sternly of God as they strolled through, and Crowley watched Aziraphale's expression pinch. And then he gasped, grabbing Crowley's arm when they opened the cell of the young lady across from Aziraphale's former cell. "You must stop them! Right away, please!" 

Crowley arched a brow, but lifted a hand in a snap. They all froze. "What's going on, angel?" 

"The Spanish Inquisition," he whispered, making Crowley's brows lift. 

"Isn't that one of your side's things? How'd you get caught up in it?" 

He pressed his lips together, wringing his hands.

"Aziraphale," Crowley pressed. 

"It's not right. You know people of any faith can make it into Heaven just so long as they are good and kind people."

"Boring, you mean. Hell gets the fun ones."

Aziraphale shook his head. The merits of Heaven and Hell regarding the human souls that ended up in each were long. Each were what humans made of them, though Hell tended to be a bit more difficult to maneuver right away. Unless the human was truly very evil. Most of them ended up having a really awful time. 

"Come on. Use your words, angel. How'd you end up here? One miracle and you'd be home."

"I mustn't. I'm not even supposed to be here."

"What?" 

He sighed. "It's misguided and wrong, but they're doing this in honor of the Almighty so, well, my head office sent me a letter. I'm to leave the inquisition alone and let it last as long as it likes. Well, as long as it's in the name of God anyway." 

"So why're you here if you're s'posed to leave it be?" 

"I... They burned six people alive, Crowley. Very innocent people. I'm here to, perhaps, turn a few cheeks and calm some undue hatred?" 

"Against orders."

Aziraphale's chin lifted. "I'm not using any miracles."

"That's what the problem is?" Sighing heavily, Crowley walked around the guards and the terrified woman they were dragging off, and stopped. "She's pregnant."

"Yes, I know. We were just discussing it. She's a former Jew who found she rather liked the idea of Christ and so converted and married a Christian man. He... Well, sadly, there was an accident. As a widow, she's had to ask her family for help while expecting their child and now she's being accused of... of falsifying her Christianity. They're going to torture her."

Crowley arched a brow. "Is she a fake Christian?" 

"No. So, you see, it's horrid. They'll put her into early labor, Crowley. I've been trying to soothe her, but..."

"Right. And how'd you end up in here?" 

"I was... speaking against the Inquisition and the wrong people may have overheard me."

"May have."

Aziraphale pouted. "Don't poke fun, Crowley. This has been very serious."

"Alright, alright." He lifted both hands, snapping his fingers, and the guards moved again. He abruptly switched to Spanish. "Right. You two. Take this lady upstairs, make sure she has a warm bath and some other woman with her. Then you're going to leave her be."

The guards nodded and the woman just looked confused. "Why do you do this?" 

"You've been exonerated. It's a miracle."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you, sir."

Crowley waved them away and sauntered back to Aziraphale. There was gratitude in his smile, but worry behind his eyes. "There are so many more people. I don't-" 

Another upwards snap had them in England and Aziraphale plucked almost nervously at his sleeve. Fidgeting wasn't something he did often. "Crowley, please, I must-" 

"What? You think you're gonna stop a whole government program without any miracles? You? By yourself?" 

"I- Well..."

"And d'you know the scope of the miracle it would take to stop it now? I can't do that and not get in actual trouble. It's in the better interests of both of our sides to keep it going."

"But-" 

"But I can lessen it." Crowley arched a brow at Aziraphale's shocked little stutter of a noise. 

"But you're a demon. Why would you-?" 

"Oh, shut it. What would I do if you got discorporated or punished? They'd start keeping a closer eye on you."

Aziraphale frowned, still looking wholly unconvinced. 

"Or I can leave it to fuck all and let everyone die."

The angel sighed. Crowley would never admit, not for an instant, that he was only doing this to keep him safe. He didn't want to lose the idiot. "Alright, Crowley. I... I suppose I can trust you this time. You'll do what you can to stop it?" 

He'd lessen it where he could. Maybe influence a pope to threaten them. He'd have to actually invest some time into it, which was annoying. He didn't want to do it. "Yes. I'll do what I can."

Aziraphale smiled, folding his hands. "Oh, thank you. I hate the thought of so much suffering for no good reason."

"Oh, yeah? God's no good reason?" he teased. 

"Oh! Now you know that isn't what I meant, just as you know that isn't the real reason. They're just saying it is and none of my memos have had any effect."

"Memos? How stuck up its own arse is Heaven?" Crowley rolled his eyes and stepped back. "See you around, angel. Stay out of Spain."

"I'll try, I suppose. Good luck."

Crowley tossed him a look over his shoulder, brow arched, and vanished before he could smile.